


we're all in our private traps

by cookiethewriter



Series: waiopt-verse [1]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, WAIOPT v2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2018-11-21 08:24:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 50,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11353617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cookiethewriter/pseuds/cookiethewriter
Summary: (take two.)roman's got his life all figured out, has all the makings of a beautiful future right in front of him. enter dean ambrose, a kid who has none of that but a dream and an old leather jacket. put the two together, and well, it's a funny story...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> first off, i'd like to apologize to those that really liked the previous version of this. a lot of stuff was wrong with it, a lot of stuff that involved going back to fix old stuff instead of writing new stuff. blah blah blah, but here we are. the only thing i can offer you right now, in terms of a proper starting note, is to not go into this expecting the old story. it's a new idea entirely, right down to the switch in pov. 
> 
> also, a HUGE happy birthday shout-out to sabrina, aka tresormidnightrose over at FFnet (and sabrina-metallicafan on tumblr). this is for you, love!

Roman Reigns has always been the kind of guy who knows where he's going and how he's going to get there; son of NFL Hall of Famer-turned-business-tycoon Sika and his wife Lisa, a social worker for the state of Florida, success flows through his veins, from his good grades to his time on the football field. He's _magic_ on the field, whether he's running at a player to take them down to prevent a score or simply giving orders from the sidelines, he's a leader through and through. Spitting image of his father, who oozes charisma and strength with a dash of intimidating, though his mother's easygoing, kind personality takes him down a bit.

Admittedly, he's kind of a mama's boy, but that only means he's got a good streak a mile-and-a-half wide. Comes in handy when he's still trying to figure out what social life he's got.

As a football player, there's an image he has to uphold. He shows it on the field, where he's son of Sika, defensive-tackle Roman 'Big Dog' Reigns, 235-pounds of steel, determined to never, _ever_ break.

But he isn't just 'son of Sika', Roman Reigns. He's not just a defensive tackle with a knack for hurting people. Underneath his jersey and football gear, he's just a 17-year-old guy who likes football, playing video games, and hanging out with his buddies.

People forget that, sometimes.

Sometimes he does, too.

That's why it was nice that he had people like his cousins, Jimmy and Jey, to drag him out of the house and to force him to ease up on his training regimen before the team's first home game at the end of the week.

And he was totally ... _totally_ ... grateful.

* * *

"C'mon, _uce_ , it's not that bad. An hour won't kill you."

Roman levels a look at his cousin, Jimmy, dark eyebrows knit in frustration. "Might not kill me, but it's sure as hell gonna annoy me. Parties ain't my thing, so explain to me again how this is supposed to help me?"

Jimmy, with a big grin on his face - he must have known Roman would say something like that - just says, "Between Uncle Sika and you, I swear, it's like the word 'fun' was ripped outta your vocabulary. Just trust me!"

He could do that. Begrudgingly, but he could.

"Fine. An _hour_."

Jimmy led Roman into the estate of their class president John Cena, where music bopped against the painted walls and the smell of the grill in the back overrode every instinct in Roman's body to turn back. Teenagers were scattered everywhere throughout the first floor, that Roman could see, from the front hallway to the living room, the kitchen, all spilling outside to the back patio. Already, he could feel the pressure locked between his shoulders ease and the stubborn square of his shoulders dissipate.

"Hey-hey, Big Dog!"

Roman turns around at the voice, hand already poised in a handshake as Mojo Rawley, one of his teammates, comes up from behind him to clap his hand on his shoulder. "Hey, Mojo."

"Wow, I can't believe you actually got him to come," that was to Jimmy, who's beaming under the attention, and Roman can't help but sigh - it might _just_ be high school football to some people, but to him, his _father_ , it's much more, and he really has to buckle down and take it seriously if he wants to pursue it professionally. In fact, that's all he had _ever_ wanted. "Rome, bro, it is so good to see you in normal clothes. Sometimes, I swear all you wear is your gear."

Roman looks down at himself: he's wearing a white tee shirt, fitted to his thin body and muscular chest and shoulders, and a pair of basketball shorts. It's what he wears mostly for working out, which is what he'd been getting ready to do before the Usos dragged him away from his in-home gym. But he doesn't look too bad in this, and he looks back up and rubs behind his neck, feeling embarrassed for some reason. "It's nice to see you too."

A lot of Roman's attention is held by Mojo, who proceeds to pull him through the Cena estate, showing him where the rest of the football guys are hanging out - near the pool, as expected, though some are still scattered around the house - and filling him in on the 'who is' and 'what is' that had managed to happen between that day at school and now.

Apparently, an injury bug was going around, with a couple of guys on the team tearing ligaments and another with a sprained wrist. Nothing that needed surgery, thank god, but something he needed to keep his eye on.

Once he got comfortable in a lounge chair next to some of his teammates, one hour turned to two, and before he knew it, he was knee-deep in conversation. It helped that the topic was mostly football, and when the topic changed, he could let his attention taper off.

Not that he didn't care about his teammates' personal lives, because of course he did. He'd just rather not hear about the sex they had or this week's rumors about who knew what.

When two hours turn to three, he feels his phone ring.

Getting up, he heads into the house, and as he reaches for his phone in his pocket, he bumps his elbow on the railing of the staircase leading up to the second floor. Swinging around it and heading up the stairs, he looks at it.

Thank _god_ it was his mother.

"Hey, Mom."

" _Roman, where are you?_ "

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he stands up straighter; there weren't many he would bother to lie to, but one he would _never_ lie to is his mother. Of course, he's not about to tell her that he's at a party, either. "I'm with Jimmy and Jey. They dragged me out of the house again."

" _Those boys!_ " his mother laughs, and Roman feels himself relax. " _Sometimes I think they do it more to annoy your father than to save you. Are you having a good time?_ "

"Yeah, somewhat. Sorry I didn't say anything. I told them an hour tops."

His mother hums thoughtfully. " _Well, in any case, it's almost supper time. You coming home soon?_ "

He hadn't noticed he'd turned into a room, never mind that it was presumably Cena's bedroom, but he quickly walks out of it and walks over to the window in the hallway, glancing out it; Jimmy and Jey are now standing at the grill, telling a story or singing, he's not sure which, but he can plainly see they're having a good time doing it. Doesn't want to put an end to their fun, but he doesn't really want to have to come up with a lie to his father as to where he was and why he hadn't been training.

Clearing his throat, he walks back down the stairs. "Yeah, I'll be there." Hopefully someone can give me a ride. "See you in a few."

" _Goodbye, dear- oh! While you're out, can you get some more coconut milk?_ "

"Yeah, sure."

As he comes down the stairs, shoving his phone in his pocket on the way, he feels something settle in his gut; he might have griped about it when he first got here, but being able to unwind after a couple of weeks of nonstop training - breaks in-between for school and sleep, of course - had actually felt pretty good, had helped him relax a little bit. Not that he didn't have fun, but he certainly didn't have other people that were willing to face his father's wrath in exchange for a break quite like his cousins. Loves them like hell for it.

Swinging his body back around the railing and headed back toward the back patio, he feels a nervous thrumming under his fingertips; Roman was anything but mean, but somehow it felt like he was doing some sort of injustice by tearing one of his cousins away from the party just to take him back home. They never complain or anything, it wasn't like that, but he knew they thrived around people and brought the party-person out of everyone.

When he gets outside, Jey is already headed in his direction.

"Hey, cos, you gotta go?"

"Yeah. Mom just called me. I can walk home, though, it ain't that far - plus she wants me to stop by the store."

"Gotcha." Meeting Roman in a high five then pulling him into a hug, Jey digs little play-punches into his arm. "Don't push yourself too hard, _uce_ , okay? Jimmy might be a li'l impulsive sometimes--"

"Sometimes?" Roman raises his eyebrow.

"--okay, most times. Look, he might be nuts, but he cares about you. We both don't wanna see you burn out. Football's your dream, but treat it like a job, all serious 'n shit, and you will. You can still enjoy it like we used to."

Roman nods.

"I'll drive you home," Jey says.

"Thanks, _uce._ "

* * *

Normal for Roman is dinner at 6pm every night, whether it was his mother cooking a delicious Italian meal or his father taking the reins -- ( ...heh ) -- and cooking a Samoan delicacy. Whatever it was, he ate it after grace and then, after he was finished, he helped his mother clean up the kitchen. Taking as long as possible, because what awaited him up in his room was the cruelest thing ever to a kid in school.

Homework.

It was still early in the year, so he didn't have a lot, but he usually got around to it at about 7pm, muscles weighted after football practice and stomach full from dinner. It doesn't take him long to finish his homework, but it takes him a while to start, because he can't seem to put his phone down.

Normal.

It's about 10pm, maybe a little after, when he finally starts getting ready for bed. He undresses and redresses into his sleep shorts - he's a hot sleeper, no matter the weather, so he wears as little clothes as possible without sleeping naked - and goes to the window to open it, the screen behind it letting in some of the cool Pensacola breeze, carrying salt from the ocean and the smell of dying bonfires. He loves his little beach town, and is reminded why at night, as he gazes across the street at the expanse of water reflecting the night sky back at itself.

Normal is quietly scuffling back to his bed, peeling off the comforter and sheet, but only draping the sheet back on his person. Normal is scrolling through his phone at texts he'd missed and grinning at ones he hadn't, before he decides at around 11pm that he's tired enough to stay asleep.

For the next few days until his football game, it'll be normal, just like today. After that, however, will be anything but normal.

But Roman ... as he sleeps restfully, blissfully unaware ... he doesn't know it yet. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 2 was burning a hole in my pocket, as the saying goes, even though i had planned to update it in a few more days. eh. this is fine.
> 
> if i were to name titles of chapters, this one would be "first meetings and frustrated Romans". lol.
> 
> (ps: i don't know jack-shit about football. lolwhoops. i'm a hockey lady. notwhoops.)
> 
> ((also, seth won't be an antagonist in this fic. idk if i'll pair him up with anyone yet or at all - and no, there will be no ambrollins/rolleigns on the road to ambreigns - but he'll be around.))

Normal ends Friday afternoon, as Roman and the rest of the football team add a second victory under their belt, making them undefeated so far in the season.

Roman's role on the football team wasn't one that allowed him to score much, if at all. He was a big guy, though not the biggest, with a good amount of speed and a greater surplus of strength. Defensive tackle was a perfect fit and he played it well, putting a stop to plays that were dire for the other team and preventing their opponents from stopping _his_ team.

When he was on the football field, he wasn't _just_  Hall-of-Famer Sika's son. He was Roman Reigns, beloved by his teammates and feared - on some level, he was sure - by the other teams'. He was the closest to his real self when he put on his helmet, donned his pads and jersey. Just so happened that his father liked it too, where he and Mom sat on the bleachers, a blanket draped around Mom and Pop whooping a Samoan victory cheer. Something he can't make out over the cheerleaders or the crowd or the congratulations being shared on the field.

Coach Angle comes up to him, pulling him into a quick embrace that's mostly chest-bumping. Says something, but Roman's thrumming on adrenaline.

Before he knows it, a microphone is in his face, and a local news anchor is asking him something.

"...I'm here with defensive tackle, Roman Reigns. Roman, how do you think your team did tonight?"

Pulling off his helmet, he clears his throat, pressing his palm over his mouth to wipe the sweat and spit away from his face. "Ya know, uh, things got a little hairy at the end of the first half but, uh, once the other team started to fumble and make small mistakes, we were able to capitalize."

News Guy nods his head. "Good, good. Congratulations on your _thirteen_ tackles, by the way."

"Thank you," Roman quickly squeezes in.

"You're a talented guy, Roman, got a lot of power and brains. It all must come natural for you - (Roman can see _that_ glint in his eye that everyone gets when they try to weasel his bloodline into a story. Shady journalists) do you see yourself continuing on with football in college, or even going to the NFL?"

Blowing out a breath, Roman pushes a hand through his hair. It's started to curl from him sweating so much. "Anything's possible - my end-game is the NFL, maybe in the next ten years or something, but for right now I'm focusing on this team of guys and my play _now_."

"Alright, thank you, Roman."

"Thank you."

As Roman turns away, he hears the anchorman redirect his attention to Coach, who has no interest in picking favorites. He loves the team as a whole, not one more than the other, and isn't about to schmooze up Sika for the sake of the journalist's story. He tunes the conversation out, though, when the topic switches to the next few games, and he is quickly greeted by a guy a few inches shorter than him.

"That was an impressive game ya played out there." Hands a towel out to Roman, who takes it and quickly wipes his face and behind his neck.

"Thanks, Rollins."

Seth Rollins, the principal's son, was a geeky kid, thin and a little lanky. A part of his dark hair was bleached, and Roman never really knew why, but it really made him pop out from the monotonous dark-haired river of kids at the school. He liked sports but preferred to watch them, and was all about video games, which Roman could understand. They were buddies enough that they'd played a few games at each other's houses. Not best friends or anything, but friendly.

Enough that Seth got away with standing close enough to him that his fingers could brush the ones at Roman's side, but they didn't.

"You going out with the team after?"

Roman grins. "Nah. Last time they spilled Coke down my shirt just so I'd take it off. Bunch'a weirdos."

Seth seemed a little distracted as he said that, looking off to the side, into the woods behind the football field.

"Seth? You okay?"

"I think ... there's somethin' in the woods."

Roman pauses and squints, turning his head to look over at the shadowed woods. Sure enough, he saw what looked like a tiny flame, maybe a lighter or a match, hidden not too deep in it, and he breathes a sigh.

"Go get Coach. I'll be right back."

Doesn't even give Seth time to answer, because Roman's already making a beeline for the woods, face stony, trying to look every bit the intimidating defensive tackle that he was supposed to be.

Leaves and sticks crunch under his shoes, and the air is cooler here than out on the field, which isn't surprising; adrenaline, the hot lights, all those bodies, it's a wonder sweat doesn't hinder his eyesight with how hot it gets, so the coolness is welcome for all of a few seconds. His eyes scan his surroundings before his head whips to the side, the sound of music playing drawing him toward the equipment shed for the ropes course.

There's a giant rock past the shed a ways. That's where the little light had been, where the music was coming from.

Where a kid, about his height, shaggy hair and hunched over, is smoking a cigarette.

"What are you doing out here so late?" it's more a demand than a question, and the kid doesn't budge. Doesn't even look up when he's asked the question, and something akin to frustration caused by his decelerating adrenaline and the fact he was ignored makes him stand a little taller. "Hel _lo_ , I'm talking to you."

"Hey, s'up?" the kid takes a drag from his cigarette, holds it, then blows it in Roman's direction. Roman waves his hand around to keep from breathing in as much. "You wanna bum a cigarette or somethin'?"

"What-- _no_." Roman didn't smoke, and didn't plan on it. "I asked what you were doing here."

The guy looks at Roman, at his cigarette, then down at something beside his leg. Something in a brown paper bag, crinkled at the top, like around the neck of something. Roman knew what that 'something' was, though. "I'm enjoyin' my Friday night."

As Roman takes a few steps closer, it looks like the kid's face is all red on the left side of his face, like he was slapped multiple times in the same spot, and under the dusty leather jacket and tank top he's wearing, he can see a bruise dusting over his skin. Looking back at the field, he concludes the lights carry over a ways, but not enough for him to have made that distinction easily. How could he see that?

"Wasting it seems more appropriate. Dude, were ... were you drinking out here?"

"Why, you want some? Mean, it's all gone now, but I could getcha some."

Shaking his head, Roman throws his hands up. "No! Look, Coach is gonna be here to see what the fuss is about. Ya better go home before he catches you."

"Yeah, right," the guy says. He stands up, picking up the emptied wrapper-covered bottle and swaying as he gets back up. "Rather deal with whatever happens here than at that place."

It isn't any of Roman's business. But he wants to ask 'what place' and 'why'. He doesn't though. He ain't nosy. Instead, he looks over his shoulder before looking back at the kid, which means staring right into a pair of bright blue eyes, because he'd taken the two seconds Roman had taken his eyes off of him to step into his space. Roman, liking his space, takes a good step back.

"What did you say you were doin' in the woods again?"

Roman guffaws.

"This ain't about me. It's about you tellin' _ME_ what _YOU_ were-- oh, fuck it."

The guy shrugs, frustratingly nonchalant, but with a hint of something on his lips that suggests he's into this, whatever it is. That only annoys Roman more.

"Ya mind throwin' this out for me?" he holds out the paper-bagged whatever to Roman, who instinctively takes it, but quickly tries to give it back. At this, the other guy just starts laughing. "Yer' the one who wants me gone, 'member? This way I can go and you can go back to yer' friends or--"

"Teammates." Roman corrects. "They're my teammates."

"Whatever. Just here."

Roman grips the trash and looks around before seeing the trash can just a few feet away. He steps toward it gracefully, avoiding a stump and some bigger-sized rocks on his way.

What he doesn't see is Coach and Mr. Regal coming up toward him and this guy, who hasn't moved but has enough time to offer a frustrated, "Fuck."

"Ambrose and Reigns! What are you doing out here?"

"Roman, _what is that in your hand_?"

Roman looked at his hand that's poised over the garbage can, that he _hadn't_ released the empty bottle into, and he quickly tries to think up something but is dutifully ignored in favor of the guy named Ambrose behind him.

"Heeeeey, William. Buddy, how's it goin'?"

"You and I know _quite_ well, Mr. Ambrose, that I am not your buddy. Explain what you and Mr. Reigns here were doing out here, if you don't mind?"

Ambrose takes a few steps into the light, standing beside Roman - yeah, those were bruises, and they were a lot more painful-looking than they were in the shadowed wood - before looking him up and down. "Well, looks like he jus' was playin' football."

"What about _you?_ "

Mr. William Regal, guidance counselor for the Senior class, crossed his arms, taking on a similar tone to how Roman had with Ambrose before. Still looks as unaffected by it as he, Ambrose, had been before.

"I was goin' for a walk, thought I'd watch the game."

"In the woods?"

"Yeah, _in the woods._ "

Coach Angle walks over to Roman, taking the bag away from him, and Roman barely has time to react before he sees him take a sniff of its contents. When he looks at Roman again, it's not with happy eyes. "Beer, Roman? _Really_? Did you think you could have a cozy drink with Mr. Ambrose here after a hard-won victory?"

"That's...!"

"It ain't like that," Ambrose tries, but Coach isn't about to listen to the kid as he looks at him with a 'Shut up, boy' look in his eyes. Doesn't get that way very often.

Roman feels 10-times more guilty, for some reason.

"Mr. Reigns, Mr. Ambrose ... as it is Friday evening and after-school hours, I do not have the ability to punish you. However, come Monday morning, the both of you, the both of _us_ , and Principal Helmsley will have a chat to go over your punishments. Roman," Regal, who'd been speaking, turns to Coach and then to Roman. "You should join your family, son. They're waiting for you. Mr. Ambrose ... come with me, I'll drive you back home."

Roman nods, takes a few steps forward, then stops when he hears Ambrose's tight, forced laugh.

"What, no 'your family is waiting' for me, huh?"

Roman turns around, slowly, his eyes falling upon Ambrose's face. His expression is wounded, like he'd been shot by someone he cared for, and it makes something twist inside Roman's gut.

"Roman, go on."

He looks over at Coach Angle, who looks about as hurt by Ambrose's harsh words as Roman feels, before he turns around and jogs off, back toward the football field where Mom and Pop are waving him over.

He doesn't tell them about Ambrose, or what had gone down, or his impending punishment.

When Mom asks him, that night, what the hubbub had all been after the game, he looks his mother in the eye and says:

"Just a misunderstanding. It'll be straightened out by Monday, promise."

It's not exactly a lie. But it definitely isn't the truth, either.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was one of those chapters that took me a hot minute to figure out how to end it, but i mean, i'm good with cliffhangers. plus, we get to see dean and roman interact again, which is fun. anyway, enjoy! c:

When Roman is dragged from his slumber early Saturday morning by his father's large hand on his shoulder, slowly shaking him awake, he has half a mind to mutter a curse under his breath, but thinks better of it by the time he's got his eyes open; it's not uncommon that his father wants him working out, even on his supposed 'off days', and Roman doesn't really mind the idea of bulking up and building more muscle, but ... did it _have_ to be on Saturday?

Saturday was supposed to be his off day. Moreover, his cheat day.

God _damn it_.

He doesn't complain, though, just shoves his fingers across his face to wipe the sleep from his eyes and the spit from the corner of his mouth. Placing his hand over his eyes like its an awning, he blinks his eyes open a couple of times, stretching his other arm up into the air and arching his back a bit before he swings his legs out of bed and stands slowly.

"Mom's got breakfast waiting, then we're going to take a ride to the school."

Confusion settles in. "What for? I got all my books. I checked."

Not that that had ever been a problem before. He's a good student, does his homework, gets good grades on his report cards.

Pop looks at him accusingly, and Roman feels much more awake at that look. "Kurt wants me to help you work a bit on your speed. This means we're headed over to the school's track to do some good old agility tests."

"Pop, it's _Saturday_ ," Roman says, voice a little hoarse, forcibly even as he slowly comes out of sleep and into awareness. He does not want to train today. And while he doesn't argue with his father much, he especially doesn't when it comes to training. "I'll work on my agility this week during practice. 'm not supposed to be a speedy guy, I'm the guy that runs other guys into the ground."

"This is true," Pop says, but he doesn't look like he's willing to budge. Roman's already sick of talking about it. "But it's not just about your role. You are just one small part of a bigger machine. You are slowing the machine down, so it's time to put in a little extra work."

Roman tries to stave off the groan the best he can. Only his father could turn a pep talk into a scold of some sort. Damn it. "Fine. But tomorrow is my cheat day, and I'm gonna sleep in." His tone isn't exactly annoyed, even if he feels it, more like a watered-down version of the voice his old man had used earlier, sure and not willing to budge, yet with a tinge of respect underlying it.

Pop nods his head. "This is fine. Now, come on, Roman. Breakfast, get dressed, and we're leaving."

When Pop leaves his bedroom, closing the door behind him, Roman reaches over to his pillow and buries his face into it, uttering every word he wanted to say into its fluffy, warm face until he feels better, then tosses it back onto his bed. It's a five minute process, and he's not sure he's said all he wants to say, but he goes to his dresser and takes out a clean pair of workout clothes anyway, closing the drawer a little harder than he probably should have.

He feels better once he's changed and heads out into the kitchen, where his mother is finishing cooking breakfast. There's a plate of sausage on the counter, and Mom puts half a pan of scrambled eggs with cheese on top on the plate too. Swooping in to drop a kiss to her cheek, he grabs the plate and goes into the dish drainer for a clean fork to eat with.

"Eat up," Pop says in his usual grumble, "You have a busy morning ahead of you."

"Yay..."

* * *

Busy had been an understatement, it seemed.

At least most of it was running - his father wasn't someone who pushed him too hard past his limits, and he let him rest his stomach with walking first, but once it hit a certain point, his father worked him up to running. It wasn't too bad, once his body started to wake up. He started walking the entire track, then he jogged the straightways and walked the corners, and before he knew it, he was running at a comfortable speed around the whole track.

His chest and legs are on fire, his heart racing. But he doesn't mind the movement after being stationary for so many hours, sleeping.

Pop is standing at the starting line, watching him intently, occasionally calling out orders of "Pump your arms!" or "Knees up!" or "Breathe out of your mouth!", which is only so helpful when he's trying not to pass out.

It's more than just relief he feels when he hears Pop call out "One more lap!", and he whoops, putting the last of his strength into his one lap. By the time he finishes it, he nearly collapses against the fence, face flushed and sweat bursting from his hairline and dripping down his face. His lungs are burning, but it's a good kind of burn, and when his father hands him a towel and points over to the water fountain connected to the hose tap on the other side of the track, he breaks into a grin.

"The rest of the day is yours to do what you want."

"And ... t-tomorrow is ... my cheat day."

Pop grins. "Yes, _atali'i_. Let your heart come down, and we'll go get lunch."

Nodding his head - he didn't realize he'd run for hours - Roman shuffles his feet in the direction of the fountain. When he gets there, he turns on the tap and waits for the water to cool, and when it does he dunks his whole head into it. When he's cooled down proper, he takes off his shirt and pats down his face, feeling his abs twitch as he pulls in a breath. Turning the tap on once more, he leans in to drink some water, draping his tee shirt around his neck like a towel before he turns the tap off and sits up.

Feels much better now.

As he starts to walk back toward his father, he hears a whistle from behind him and he whirls around.

That Ambrose kid from yesterday is looking him up and down, clear blue eyes blatantly checking him out with his bottom lip in his teeth. Roman doesn't have the energy to feel embarrassed about it, so he musters up his best 'What are you looking at?' frown. He, Ambrose, looks like he'd just rolled out of bed, with a wrinkled tee shirt and basketball shorts, hair a shaggy mess. He's cleanly shaven, though, which Roman supposes he has going for him.

"Hey there."

"Were you watchin' me or something?" Roman raises an eyebrow at him.

Ambrose shrugs his shoulders in that annoyingly nonchalant way he does. When he opens his mouth, his words have this lazy crawl about them. "Not that ya don't have a nice body or anything, but no. Jus' got here." Before Roman can say anything else, Ambrose leers, "Though, ya do have a nice body."

Roman sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face, which feels hot all of a sudden. "What are you doing, Ambrose?"

"Dean."

"What are you doing here, _Dean_."

Dean, with this Cheshire-cat grin, looms a little closer to Roman, walking around him to get to the water fountain. Roman takes a couple steps away and starts to put his shirt on. Turning the tap, Dean takes in a few mouthfuls of water, then puts handfuls of water into his hair, combing it off his forehead. It's got to be almost 90-degrees already. Turning off the tap then turning back to Roman, Dean sighs.

"Can't a guy walk around without bein' questioned?"

He seems to be enjoying this a little too much. Roman shakes his head.

"Whatever. I'm gonna go now. See ya later, Ambr-- Dean."

As Roman steps around him and starts headed back in the direction of his father, he hears Dean turn around in place, and as he turns around the curve of the track and breaks into a jog in the direction of Pop, he peeks from the corner of his eye to see Dean looking, watching, his back. As Roman stops, he fully turns to look at Dean, but he's gone.

Roman feels disappointed for some reason.

* * *

Sunday, he sleeps in late. Like, 10am.

He's quite happy about it too, and once he's whipped himself up a bowl of cereal, he texts his cousins to meet him at the beach, where he spends most of the day. When he gets back later that afternoon, sunkissed and grinning ear-to-ear, he enjoys a plate of lasagna with salad on the side for dinner. That night, full and sated from the day's activities, he drags his ass into the shower and into his sleep shorts, then into bed.

Not once does he think about what tomorrow being Monday means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> according to google translate: (samoan - english)
> 
> atali'i - son


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, a big reason for why this update took forever was i was away. once for a week to take care of family stuff, and then a few days after /that/ i left for cape cod, which was fun. little hiccup on the way there, but the rest of the few days i was there was amazing. even got some new ideas outta nowhere while i was gone. pretty gnarly.
> 
> but here's a part-one of sorts. next one's a little less light. enjoy!

He doesn't think about it Sunday night, but boy, does he remember it Monday morning.

Roman's the kind of seventeen year old that sets his alarm earlier than normal because he knows he wants to sleep an extra fifteen minutes instead of getting up immediately. He usually showers at night so he has less to worry about in the morning, and every couple of days he has to shave and trim his goatee. But today wasn't one of those days.

What made this Monday different from any other Monday was that there was this ... nervous energy _zipping_ under his skin, swimming in his blood. And that left him awake before his alarm, which he hadn't done since he was much younger, just staring up at his ceiling; he hadn't ever really gotten in trouble at school, aside from a few times a couple of his teachers have had the (dis)pleasure of having not only him but Jimmy and Jey in their classes.

He's not really a rowdy guy, but pair him up with his cousins and no one was safe.

Instead of staying in bed and trying to get more sleep, Roman decides to roll himself out of bed and get into his clothes. His usual outfit is a pair of dark jeans and a tee shirt, and today's tee shirt is a baseball tee that has his number custom-printed on the back of it in black. Brushing his hair is as simple as scrubbing his hand through it - it's short, so it doesn't need a lot done to it - and when he looks over at his alarm clock, it's still early.

It's about a half-hour until he was supposed to get up, so he grabbed his phone from its place on his nightstand, put it in his pocket, and grabbed his backpack.

No one is awake yet, which doesn't surprise him, and he questions whether or not he wants to risk waking his mother or father up when he attempts to make himself breakfast. There was a place he could stop on the way to get coffee and a donut later, so he puts his things near the door.

 _What's the worst Principal Helmsley could do?_ Roman found himself wondering, _Could he ban me from playing football?_

The thought made a sick feeling settle in his stomach. Surely he wouldn't.

_He might bench me, maybe for a couple games, or make me stay after..._

After a few moments of deliberate thought, he's not sure whose wrath he'd rather avoid: his principal, his coach, or his father.

* * *

Getting himself out the door and headed towards IHOP was something of a godsend. But he drove himself there, got himself a styrofoam container with a Big Steak Omelette and three buttermilk pancakes, and drove in the direction of the school.

He's not too concerned with getting there early, so he drives until he sees a place where he can pull off the road and he opens the glove compartment, a baggie of assorted plastic silverware tucked away, and he pulls out a fork before he gets to eating.

It's not anything like his mother's cooking, but he knows that this'll at least keep him sated until lunch time.

The omelette tastes off from the lingering taste of toothpaste, but he savors it anyway, keeping himself from letting out an embarrassing sound. He leans back as he chews, looking out the windshield window ...

"No _fucking_ way."

... when, in the distance, he sees Dean Ambrose, grumpily stalking away from a line of apartment buildings. He's wearing the same black leather jacket, worn and dirty looking, jeans that have holes in the knees, and his hair is sticking to his forehead. Looks angry from this far away, and he finds himself thinking that he didn't want to be the person that crosses him the wrong way today.

He hoped he wouldn't have to deal with it later.

It doesn't look like he sees Roman where he is on the side of the road, so he doesn't bother to hide himself. He also doesn't bother to stop watching Dean, either, watching as it looks like he's talking to himself, then he turns to face the apartments again and yells something Roman can't quite understand, flipping the bird, then turning back around.

A few more steps and Dean does see him, and his expession changes from deadly to that oh-so unsettling leer as he swaggers his way over to the car's passenger side window and rasping his knuckles against it.

Instead of opening it, Roman just unlocks the door and beckons him inside. All Dean does is open the door and bend down into the empty space. "What's cookin', good lookin'?"

"Ambrose, really?"

But Dean doesn't look all that fazed by what he said, nor Roman's reaction. Looking to the side, in the direction of the buildings, Dean chuckles before it dies off, quickly as it came. He ducks into the seat, closes the door, and makes himself comfortable.

"Were ya watchin' me?" Dean asks, to which Roman denies. Not that he feels the need to defend himself, but he feels the need to make sure the kid understands. "Not that I ain't flattered, big guy, but 'm pretty sure you're not s'posed to get caught."

"I didn't even know you lived here," Roman says. "I pulled over to eat."

As if he was just seeing it for the first time - he might have, actually - Dean looks at the container of food and sounds off in understanding. "Ooooooooh." He sits back, arms crossed over his stomach, and he looks out the window. Roman's not sure why he doesn't just leave if he would rather, but he doesn't say anything, just goes back to his omelette.

He maybe makes it a bite while it's quiet before he hears a stomach growling, breaking said quiet.

"Did you eat?"

"Yeah."

"...did you actually eat?"

"What are you, my mom?"

Rolling his eyes, Roman takes out his omelette and sets it on a napkin before putting the container of pancakes in Dean's lap. "There's a baggie of forks in the glove compartment. Here."

Dean is so surprised he actually jumps, and Roman takes that for what it is with a frown. His eyes, bright and blue, slowly look at Roman like he'd never known kindness before. He quickly shakes it off though and opens the styrofoam container, picking up the fork and looking at it like he'd never seen one of those before, either.

"You got a problem with pancakes?"

"No, but-"

"Good. _Bon appetit_."

Silence takes over again, Roman polishing off the rest of his omelette and dutifully ignoring the slow, hesitant way Dean finishes the pancakes. He doesn't have to look to see that Dean's watching him as he does so, cautious, but when they both finish Roman deposits the empty papers in the bag they came in and drops it on the floor of the back seat.

Dean looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn't, instead reaching for the handle of the door and starting to make his exit.

"Where you goin'? Don't you want a ride to school?"

Looks like Dean literally jumps out of his skin at the suggestion. "Nah, man. It ain't that far."

Roman shrugs, lets Dean go. When Dean makes for the other side of the road and digs his hands in his jacket pockets, and Roman pulls away from the side and drives in the direction of the school, Roman can't help but feel he should have pushed for it, but lets the feeling die off as quickly as it came.

* * *

" _Will Roman Reigns and Dean Ambrose please report to the front office? Roman Reigns and Dean Ambrose to the front office._ "

If there was anything Roman had learned in his 17-years of life so far, it was that in the face of adversity, he should square his shoulders and keep his head held high. So when he heard his name come out over the intercom with Dean's short thereafter, he gets up from his desk before the teacher even gives him the go-ahead and feigns confidence as he makes his way out.

Roman, on the surface, was a good student. He got good grades, he was a talented athlete, and he was always happy to help a student out. But stepping away from that, he wasn't a _perfect_ student; he was still a teenage boy, which made him a little rowdy sometimes, and although he wasn't anywhere near his cousins' class-clown caliber, when the three of them were together, he could be goofy.

He definitely wasn't on the lowest or highest rung on the disruptive scale, but to call him a perfect student aside from his grades and the high school social hierarchy was just stupid.

So Roman, all feigned-confidence, holds himself in high regards and hopes for the best as he makes his way toward the front office. By the time he gets there, Dean's already inside the office, talking to Counselor Regal about something or other. As Roman enters, words on Dean's side of the conversation die and he regards him coolly, before walking over to the wall next to the principal's office and leaning up against it.

"Roman, it's good to see you again," Mr. Regal says, regarding him with a welcoming smile. "Coach Angle should be here soon, and then we'll get this out of the way."

Nodding his head, Roman watches as Mr. Regal heads into his office to wait. When he makes no sign of returning again, Roman starts to pace.

"Dude, calm down," Dean mutters, and it makes Roman narrow his eyes at him, because it was easy for him to say. "The worst that'll happen to you is after-school detention, and that ain't as bad as you think. Stayin' in a classroom for like, an hour ain't nothin'."

But the nervous energy wouldn't be there if it was just 'nothing', and Roman knows that. Whirling around and facing Dean with a very no-bullshit frown, he says, "I have football practice every day for three hours after school, and on Friday I have a game. A big game. The Homecoming game."

"So?" Dean asks, genuinely confused. Roman finds himself wondering if he was seriously not seeing the big deal here.

And Roman prepares to respond before he feels a hand clap on his shoulder, and he turns his head to look at Coach Angle.

"Roman. Ambrose."

Dean narrows his eyes but doesn't look Coach in the eyes, eyes trained on the molding on the bottom of the wall. Roman follows his eyes, looks up at Dean's face, then looks up at Coach again. Finds himself feeling a bit defensive.

From out of nowhere, Mr. Regal pops back up again. "Ah, you've come. Let's go in, boys, Principal Helmsley will see you now."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time no see, yadda yadda, sorry this is very late, blah blah blah. expect some updates in the next week/two weeks!

Detention. _Fucking_ detention.

The worst-case scenario had been _much_ worse than the suggestion Dean had made earlier: suspension had been the original decree, but Coach Angle had quickly jumped to Roman's aid, even if it meant throwing Dean under the bus. That was _not_ part of Roman's plan. He didn't want that to happen.

Dean only managed a shrug, which raised more questions than answers.

Principal Helmsley had assuaged the deal, giving Roman 4-weeks detention. Coach, although he was still a little cross, agreed, assuring Roman that it was only a small bit of practice he'd be missing. With a little extra effort, he could make that up easy. It didn't relieve the anxious feeling in his gut, but it loosens it a bit, releases some of the pressure building up, the whine of a deflated balloon.

That left the other serving of punishment, which had definitely roused Dean from his uncaring, aloof behavior.

Coach had led Roman out of the office before anything had been said, but Dean's scream of " _Suspension?!_ " could have been heard for _miles._ Of _course_ Dean, being the one that had the alcohol on the premises, would have to deal with all that crap. Roman didn't get to hear anything else after that, but when he saw Dean later, he wasn't exactly steaming from the ears. A little dejected, sure, but not angry.

He can't even imagine what's going through Dean's head right now...

* * *

The only thing going through Dean's head after this morning is 'fuck William Regal'.

If not for him, Dean would probably be expelled, and would have to face the wrath of his fucking step-dad, that much was true. But, _because of_ Regal, he's gonna have to deal with being stuck in in-school suspension for 2 months. How he worked that, even Dean didn't know, but when he really thinks about it, he's sure it's because the old man pities him. That's probably it, because other than that one bit of humanity, the guy was practically ice-cold when it came to Dean.

As far as he's concerned, he got off pretty scot-free. Not like his mom knew he stayed after school, nor did his step-dad care, but such was life. At least he didn't have to deal with detention and missing anymore work than he already had this year.

That would have been the biggest blow to this whole punishment deal, but he supposed he'd have deserved it.

* * *

The worst part of all of this, for Roman, wasn't that he was going to be stuck in a classroom for an hour, staring at a wall or working on homework. It wasn't even that he was going to miss the first leg of football practice. Perhaps the worst part was that, instead of having a chance to explain to his mother and father what happened and keep the peace himself, his parents were going to hear about this from the principal's mouth first. Over the _phone._

And to any normal kid, they might prefer that the school handle the conversation, but Roman was no normal teenager. Anything he had to tell his parents he preferred to tell them face-to-face. He didn't like feeling like he was hiding behind someone else when he screwed up, and he had no issues with taking responsibility.

But this one issue, his first detention that could have been a _suspension_ , he'd have preferred to own up to it on his own terms instead of the school handling this for him. And his father ... well, Pop would hold his tongue on the phone, would ask his many questions to find out exactly what happened and who were involved, but as soon as Roman returned from practice that evening, he would pretty much hear it.

Or, the worse option: he'd hear _nothing._

When it comes down to it, detention is the lesser of two evils, so he manages to shrug off the nagging feeling of guilt and carry on with the rest of his day. The rest of his day flies by, with lunch in-between being a good break for him to release some of the tension in his shoulders with a daily excursion with his cousins in the front courtyard. A lot of it was spent laughing at the jokes Jimmy told him, or listening to Jey talk about the newest, juiciest gossip going around the school.

Those two were the epitome of fun.

In his final few classes, Roman is much more awake, less like he's watching someone live out his life for him. That happens sometimes, when his everyday monotony gets the better of him, but his cousins know how to ground him again. He takes his notes and listens to the teacher drone on about how many chapters he had to read overnight, and before he knows it, the final bell rings.

Getting up from his desk, he picks up his books and _books_ it out of the classroom.

In the meeting this morning, Mr. Regal had said that he would be holding detention in the music room upstairs. So once Roman made it to his locker and packed his backpack with all of his books, he went right there.

At this point, he thinks running into Ambrose is just a thing he's going to be doing now, because no sooner does he start his trek to the gym does he see him coming down the stairs from the second floor. His expression is how Roman felt earlier, a little tired, not really _there_ , but once Roman meets his eyes it's like everything connects again.

This time, Roman doesn't feel annoyed, and he welcomes the company as Dean walks beside him, his pace much more relaxed than Roman's. He takes that as a sign to slow down.

"We gotta stop runnin' into each other like this," Dean says, but it doesn't sound like he wants that at all.

Roman, for the first time since they met, cracks a little grin of his own. "At this point, I'm starting to wonder if you're following me."

All Dean does is laugh - this harsh sound that makes Roman want to clear his own throat - before he sticks his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Could be the other way 'round. You my stalker or somethin'?"

"Yeah, right," Roman chuckles, a much nicer sound in his own ears, before he digs his elbow into Dean's arm. "Sounds like that's more wishful thinkin' than anything. Only time I ever see you is when you're comin' right at me."

Dean doesn't say anything. He's got that grin on his face, though, and Roman decides it's not the worst grin he's ever seen.

He'd actually venture to say that Dean Ambrose wasn't the worst looking person.

"So, what's your punishment?" Roman shouldn't be curious, but he is. He's never really had anyone in his social circle get themselves into this much trouble. It's kind of refreshing. "I'm pretty sure everyone within a mile radius heard you screamin' in the office, by the way."

Dean shoves his hands into his pockets. "In-school suspension."

"Holy shit," Roman says, dragging his hand down his mouth, scraping against his goatee. "When's that gonna be over?"

"Indefinitely. 'pparently, enough people in the office pity me enough not to expel me on the spot, but it don't matter."

"It _doesn't_?" Yeah, he had to accentuate the proper grammar, but it's more a teaching opportunity than a teasing one. Dean doesn't catch on, just bounces along to a rhythm only he can jive to, head bobbing every now and again. "It should matter. Colleges will see that."

"That ain't any issue I gotta deal with."

Nodding his head in understanding and taking the abrupt ending to anything else he could say, he clutches the strap of his backpack with one hand and flaps his other one in front of himself, as if wiping away the rest of his words. "Well, in any case, _I_ have detention to get to. See ya around?"

"Prob'ly. You gonna be around later or somethin'?"

"I mean," Roman rubs the back of his neck, "I have football practice immediately after. If you want, you can stick around and I can drive you home?"

The look that crosses Dean's face immediately makes that flutter of anger glow in his gut. Like that's the last thing he wants, but is also something he definitely wants but is ... not afraid, but definitely something close. Roman takes the initiative. "Stay after anyway. If you wanna ride, cool, if not, also cool."

That calms Dean down somewhat and he nods. "'kay. Cool. Should I like, go wait, or-"

Roman grins. "I don't think you can come with me. Pretty sure Mr. Regal will catch on that you're not in detention."

The echoing grin, albeit more subdued, that Dean's got on his face at that is enough that Roman considers it a silent victory, and he casts him a mock-salute before tearing off in the direction of the stairs to head to detention.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -obligatory 'i am so sorry' message- 
> 
> .........let's just dive right in!

Detention is about as exciting as an extra hour of class sounds. Roman and a few other kids - looked more like the type of kids that got detention in movies, delinquents wearing black and piercings in various visible places, not that Roman was judging them - took their seats at a round table in the corner, with him being the only one to _actually_ do any of his work, and Regal followed them all in. There was a desk with a computer in the corner, and his fingers tapping on the keyboard filled about ten seconds of quiet, before he looked upon the kids at the table and told them to begin their work.

He gives Roman, specifically, this look that he can't quite decipher before he looks back at the computer screen.

It's an hour of work and mumbled voices - _"Mr. Football Star? In detention?"_ , _"Guess he's not so perfect."_ , _"Don't tell_ _ him _ _that."_ \- that he tries very hard to ignore, but when he's released he's out of there much too fast for anyone to believe that he was unaffected.

Everyone always thinks and says he's 'perfect', and he's never gotten it, but it doesn't feel like a compliment when people say it. Not that he expects everyone to think he's perfect, because _he_ doesn't think he is necessarily, but he's pretty sure he'd prefer not to hear it. Shouldering on through the hall to the gym to change into his gear, he holds his head high.

_"Guess he's not so perfect."_

Yeah, no shit.

* * *

On a normal day, football was a good escape from the pedestal people seem to hold him on, but today's practice feels a lot more like stress relief; his teammates welcome him with friendly smiles and fill him in on the first half-hour he'd missed, and he is off to the races in about thirty-seconds' time.

There's a lot of talking around him, mostly words of encouragement and friendly banter, but Roman remains quiet, which isn't anything new; he _could_ be noisy, normally isn't, but this quiet is so different.

_"-not so perfect."_

_"You are slowing the machine down..."_

"Roman!"

It's too late for Roman to make sense of what happened when he suddenly finds himself in front of Mojo Rawley, whose arms are held out, poised to stop his teammate even though Roman was going much too fast for him to actually do so. His reaction time isn't the fastest, so it's no surprise that they go tumbling into each other.

Mojo is thrown backwards first, and it's a miracle that Roman doesn't land on him, but turns slightly so he can land on his arm. He grunts when he hits the grass, holds up a thumbs-up when several of their teammates start making their way over, various calls of concern and alarm. Roman can't move, though, doesn't want to, because he doesn't want to face the burning question that's probably going through everyone's minds.

What got into him?

_Words. Stupid words._ _Just ... just words._

"Reigns! Rawley!" Coach Angle's got his hands on his bald head. Pretty sure if he had to hair to pull, he'd have yanked it all out by now. "Please tell me you both are 100-percent!"

Rawley shakes his thumbs-up around. "I'm good, Coach!"

"Good," Coach rumbles, helps him up and claps him on the back. "Go join the others. Reigns, you good?"

Roman pushes his hands underneath him, pushes himself up from the grass, and practically rips his helmet off of his head. Coach reaches a hand out to check his jaw, his nose, moves his head to and fro to check his neck, and huffs in relief. Roman hasn't said a word yet.

"Roman, you've gotta pay attention," concern emanates from Coach Angle's voice, and Roman visibly jumps when he feels a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Why don't you take a breather, collect your thoughts, and come join us again for some throwing practice. If you want, you can take a walk around the field."

Instead of answering, Roman gets up onto his feet - his ankle burns as he steps on it, but he's not about to tell Coach that, not with everyone counting on him for the game on Friday - and nods his head as he does so, starting toward the track. Coach doesn't stop him, just watches, seemingly unaware of the flames of anger blooming in his blood and seering his vision.

Probably doesn't miss Roman throwing his helmet violently into the chain fence, or the way he shakes out his foot like he's getting something out of his pant leg, but by the time Roman's sobered up enough to care, practice is resuming.

The worst part of all of it, in Roman's mind, isn't that he had allowed himself to get distracted by the laughing voices in his head. It's not that practice had stopped for a whole five seconds so he could have his little episode.

Probably ... the _worst_ part was, by the time Roman made it to the bit of fence that separated the field from the bleachers, he can see Dean staring at him, his expression unreadable, lips parted in what was probably a gasp or the start of a cocky grin. His hair is slicked back some, giving Roman full view of his eyes, which are wide but no less innocent than the rest of him.

Looks like he has something on the tip of his tongue that he wants to say, but Roman ignores him and briskly walks - tries not to limp - past. Whatever he's gotta say, Roman doesn't want to hear it.

He  _doesn't_.

* * *

 

 He never asks, and when practice is over and all the anger has left his system, Dean is already gone. Roman makes the walk to his car alone, and he's not sure why that thought drags him down more.

* * *

" _Detention!_ "

Pop didn't yell much; he was the type of guy that could silence a person with just a look, or with his silence, so when Roman gets home and one of the first things he hears when he shuts the door is his father's booming voice, he feels something cold shoot down his spine. Did they suddenly live in a freezer or something?

The large figure of his father stood before him before he could announce his return.

"Pop, if I could ju--"

"Are you _trying_ to embarrass me?! Is this a _joke_ to you?"

Roman didn't feel humored, but he didn't realize he'd been laughing. He catches himself mid-chuckle, but it's from nerves. This is far from a joke to him. "It's just a misunderstanding! I'll serve my sentence and--"

He had meant it jokingly, his 'sentence', but Pop was thoroughly unamused. "This is a _joke_ to you. This is un _like_ you, Leati."

Leati. His proper Samoan name. Just like that, any humor is _gone._ Roman looks down, rubs up and down his arm, nostrils flared in an effort to stay quiet; the last thing he wants to do is unleash his anger on his old man, who was possibly the strongest influence when it came to his future. It doesn't occur to him that his jaw is starting to ache, either.

Reaching up, he rubs at his jaw, then his neck before he looks up at his father, strong and proud.

His father's face becomes stony, expressionless. It stings.

"I'm disappointed in you, Roman."

As his father turns away, all Roman can do is watch, eyes wide, words he had never heard before echoing over and over again in his head.

_"Not so perfect."_

_"...disappointed..."_

He doesn't realize he's moving, but his mother's concerned voice follows him as he runs up the stairs to his bedroom. His ankle is on fire, pounding, and he's pretty sure the tears gathered in the corners of his eyes are from it, but he says nothing, does ... _nothing._

The last thing he wants to do is break, and to prevent it, he has to become impenetrable.

Pretty easy, actually - if his father could do it in a matter of seconds, surely he could, too.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two updates in less than a week? am i DYING? (no) nah, but i suppose i haven't been very good at keeping y'all sated when it comes to content, sorry 'bout that, but with the resurgence of shield/roman and dean content i am LIVING and figured i should try to, ya know. be good or whatever. 
> 
> (full disclosure, i've never been to a football practice, and the only bit of it i've ever seen is a few games in high school and an episode of reba. thassit. so please like, don't eat me - hockey and wrestling are about the only sports i care about)
> 
> here, have some more world-building and roman/mojo bro-ments. c:

Once he gets a couple days of it under his belt, Roman decides detention isn't the worst punishment in the world, especially when he remembers to listen to music as he does his work. It certainly helps block out the whispered voices of the other students, and that makes for a much less-stressed Roman by the time of it's dismissal.

Practice goes a lot better after that one spill on Monday, and he feels a lot better about the way he plays as the week progresses; of course, it doesn't take him long to shake off a funk, because most of the time it's jump-started by words, and words couldn't hurt him any more than a nameless blurb sitting on the bleachers could.

Every day, without fail, Dean is sitting out on the bleachers, wearing the same old dirty, black leather jacket he always wore, eyes always transfixed on the numbers on the back of his jersey as he ran back and forth, threw the football, play-tackled guys during scrimmage ... he never looked away. And the weirdest part of it was, it didn't really weird him out or anything. Dean looked like he was enjoying himself, and maybe Roman thought it wasn't such a bad thing.

Dean starts becoming part of the flow, part of his 'normal', and although he was sure his father would be  _very_ against that, he was pretty sure this is one of those things he might not agree with his father on. 

And his father ... he hadn't spoken to Roman since Monday evening, when he yelled at him. Nothing more than a grunt or sigh, but he didn't really have to say anything. Pop's silence spoke a lot louder than his yelling voice did, and Roman heard loud and clear. But they resolutely stay out of each other's way, more on Pop's side than his own, and Roman finds himself okay with that.

For Roman, Friday couldn’t come soon enough.

* * *

 

Dean doesn't go to school on Friday.

It shouldn't have been the biggest deal in the world; the day before, Thursday, he had been a little slower in the way he moved and spoke, at least that Roman noticed. And Roman noticed everything, he watched and he learned because of it. It's why he immediately realizes that something wasn't quite right with Dean's absence, but he doesn't say anything.

No one would care anyway. He got the impression that not a lot of people liked Dean ... well,  _really_ liked him.  He dug him enough, despite their first meeting being soiled by their respective punishments, and  although he wasn’t sure they knew each other, Seth was in the same grade as Dean. Maybe he  knew him.

So when he sees Seth in the hall before his lunch block, he pats him on the arm to get his attention, and immediately leans in a little to say, among the bustle of teenagers rushing to their lockers or to the cafeteria, "Yo, you seen Ambrose anywhere?"

"No," Seth says, too short, as he spins around to look at Roman fully. "We're not in any of the same classes though, anyway. But I guess he ain't here today. Must've gotten sick."

Roman doesn't think that's true; he didn't look pale or anything yesterday, just moved like he was trying not to step on the wrong tile on the floor.

But he carries on like it isn't bothering him, and he's very good at that, pretending that nothing in the world bothers him. He sits through his classes and does what he's told and manages not to completely get wrapped up in the thought of Dean and where he might be.  For all he knows, he contracted something overnight, or more likely, he was just skipping school, despite his in-school suspension.

At the school's pep rally, he expects to see Dean's face in the sea of  other students cheering and scream-singing the school's song, but he doesn't. Something sinks inside him, but when he feels his teammates start the team's chant, he shakes it off and joins in the fray, high-fiving some of the guys that are standing near him and letting out  a loud  l augh as the rest of the team continues chanting and yelling excitedly. 

* * *

It's a blur, the rest of the afternoon, leading up to the football game.

Because Roman had been in detention, he had missed the bus that would take him to the pregame meal, which happened to be at Mojo's house, so as soon as he was released from detention, he ran out of the school and threw his things into the back seat of his car. He moves so fast, like lightning, that he doesn't even remember the drive from the school to Mojo's house. And he's been there several times, he lived on the same street as Cena, so he could get there without much attention anyway.

The food that he  _does_ manage to eat not in a distracted daze tastes damn good: Mrs. Rawley's barbecue ribs, green beans and Lucky's potato salad - a team tradition for every pregame meal - are sweet and tender, practically fall off the bone and into his mouth, and the green beans aren't plain-Jane beans, they're buttered and seasoned with garlic and delicious. The potato salad is sweet and creamy, and adds just the right amount of tang. 

Clean-up begins about twenty minutes in, but he's only half-finished. Sticking two ribs on top of each other, he eats them both quickly before using a napkin to clean his face to the best of his ability. Coach goes around and rushes the team out to board the bus once again, and Mojo tells Roman that he can hitch a ride with him post-game so he can drive back home again. Roman grins and agrees, and for a while, he feels the tension that had been building up melt away.

A pep-talk and crash-course in game study later, Roman sits in the locker room, starting to get his gear and pads on. Pregame jitters have worked off the meal from a couple hours ago for him, and he almost feels empty again with the excitement of knowing it won't be  _just_ Mom and Pop out there on the bleachers, but his brother and sisters, back from their respective lives. 

A smile appears on his face - he was the youngest of the siblings, and his sisters and brother had already graduated and were living their lives out of Florida. He hadn't seen them since that summer, when all three of them had surprised their father for Father's Day festivities. After that, it's been the occasional message on Skype or talking on the phone.

He was excited to see his siblings again. Mostly, his brother Matt, or 'Rosey'. They'd always been close, but after he left to chase his dream of becoming a wrestler (a  short-lived dream of Roman’s, too , who wanted to be like his brother, but ended up  following in  Pop’ s footsteps instead) they hadn't seen each other much outside of Youtube videos or Skype sessions while he was on the road, or--

\--he was just really excited to see his big brother again.

"Roman, bro!" he looks up to see Mojo and his other buddy Zack, who was something of a male cheerleader-slash-hype man, in his pads and flashing him a dopey grin. "Your foot feel better?"

"Yeah," he says, soft, deep. It definitely doesn't hurt, but it doesn't feel  _normal._ "Good as new. Your ribs good?" 

"Yeah, dude, totally!"

He sounds like he means it, and Roman huffs in relief, nodding his head, before he stands up and starts getting on his jersey.

"Alright boys! Hustle up!"

Roman pushes  the door to his locker closed and  steps over the bench as Coach comes in and starts the final pregame pep-talk ,  his attention swaying in and out of it, and before he knows it, Coach is finishing up his  _Go out there and win this game!_ spiel and the rest of the team is meeting in the middle, hands outstretched. He gets up and follows,  yells “ Gooo Gators!” with the rest of the team, and one-by-one the boys all head out of th e l ocker room. 

* * *

Roman has to try not to wince as he wraps his ankle up, having tweaked it somewhere in the second quarter, because he wants to get back out there, wants to show his family how hard he's working despite having detention ... his siblings would get a kick out of his situation, considering he'd always been the baby, the one who did no wrong.  Vanessa would probably get the biggest kick out of it.

It hasn't been the worst game he's ever played. The Gators are up 25-12 by half-time, and he's itching to get back out there.

For the hell of it, he sweeps his gaze out the window, to the stands, catching sight of his father immediately, Rosey next, then his sisters. He can see several of his teammates parents, siblings and other family spread around his own family, but his stand out above them all, and he's sometimes not so sure it's a size thing or it's because they're his.

He'd be the first to admit that they cast quite a shadow on everyone else.

The marching band and cheerleaders all entertain the crowd for half-time, leading them in the school's cheer and school song. Somewhere in-between the two acts, the Gator mascot is doing a bit with the audience, making a fool of themselves or getting them to dance. It's all fun and the game resumes after it's intermission.

Roman makes a lot of tackles during the third quarter, finding his groove and masterfully ignoring the pain in favor of playing a good game. The team, and the crowd - mostly his siblings, with occasional shouts from his father, because he's pretty sure Mom has covered her face for most of the game, watching her baby tackle and be tackled and probably getting hurt not exactly one of her favorite pastimes - are behind him, cheering, shouting words of encouragement as he gets back up and makes a different play.

It's a rough game, but by the end of the fourth quarter, they come out of it with the victory, 32-12. It's the perfect start to Homecoming weekend, and the team all embrace when they make it back into the locker room, cheering and high-fiving.

Roman's ankle is happy, too,  that the game is over; i t hurts a lot more now, but he decides he can just throw some ice on it when  he gets home.  He sends his father a text that he would be getting a ride with Mojo,  not waiting for a reply, before shoving his phone into his gym bag.

The team all grabs their things and goes almost immediately, breaking off into groups by the time they make it to the parking lot. Roman, after grabbing his own belongings, sets off to find  Mojo.

H e finds him standing by his black truck, standing with Ryder,  and when Mojo realizes Roman is limping,  both he and Ryder come right over to help. “Bro, I thought you said your ankle was fine.” 

“It _is_ fine,” Roman says, firm, even if he’s pretty sure Mojo isn’t falling for it. But Roman is stubborn and doesn’t need to be taken care of, it’s just an ankle, so he musters his best grin and knocks his open hand against Mojo’s arm. “Good playin’ out there. How many points you rack up? 20?”

Mojo turns bashful and playfully bats at Roman’s hand. “C’mon, Big Dog, you can’t expect me to do all that – now  _you_ , on the other hand, were  _excellent_ in the second half, bro! Mowing down guys left and right like it’s your job! You’re the real MVP, bro.” 

Roman puffs out his chest, grunting a “Damn straight” by way of answer, but inside he’s preening. Count on a guy like Mojo to hype him up and make him feel good. Ryder is nodding along with him, hanging on every word Mojo says, and Roman feels a smile break through his bravado. “Whatever, let’s just get outta here so I can ice this here ankle.”

“You got it, Big Dog!”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in a perfect world, i won't get swamped by the holidays. here's hopin'.

Turns out, as much as they were, well, his siblings, Roman was actually pretty grateful that they had all stayed the weekend; not that he was annoyed with them on any given basis, but they all had their special relationships, and they all included giving him, the ‘Baby’ Reigns, a hard time, muscling him around like he was a rag-doll with advice he never asked for and teasing he was better off ignoring in favor of homework. In fact, that’s where he spent a grand majority of his Saturday.

Sometimes, he just wanted to be alone, and having his siblings here was honestly, truly, great for it. The attention diverted to them, and the three of them ate it up like Mom’s home-cooking, leaving him to be by himself even for just a short time. It was a relief much more than it was anything else, and honestly, Roman was grateful for eyes not being on him all the time.

Not that he cared too much about it, but Roman had missed the Homecoming dance on Saturday night, but even if he didn’t, it wasn’t like he was crowned Homecoming King or anything; he wasn’t the biggest fan of dances, mostly because he didn’t really know _how_ to dance, but also because he actually liked to hole himself up in his room and play video games in his room or finish up his homework. If he wanted to get into a decent college, he needed to work hard and play hard, and he played plenty hard in football.

Not to mention, he wasn’t about to go to a school dance when his brother was at home. Rosey trumped a stupid dance any day.

For the most part, he and Rosey looked a lot alike, which wasn’t surprising since they were brothers. Rosey was larger, wider, than Roman, had a rounder head, but they had the same face practically: tan skin, brown eyes, dark hair. They were a lot alike in personality too, thanks to their father, with a perfectionist attitude and pride that would put a lion to shame. The only difference was that Roman was a bit more explosive with his anger, only after a long period of time, while Rosey had the temper of a normal person, a feint simmer that eventually faded into oblivion.

It turned out, football was a good emotional outlet for Roman, too. Kept his head clear.

Clear, of course, except in the case of the last game, where he was concerned for his ankle and overwhelmed by his family in the crowd and _worried_ about ...

_No_ . Roman chided himself. _Ambrose is fine. Probably just got sick or something, or hurt himself. _

...yeah, that second reassurance didn’t sound too convincing of his argument, but what was he supposed to do, track him down and demand an explanation? It wasn’t like he knew the guy all that well, outside of the weird pseudo-friendship that was developing from being a couple of trouble-making teenage boys.

But as much as Roman doesn’t want to admit it – and believe him, he doesn’t – Dean’s become part of his ‘normal’. That might, in fact, be how he even noticed Dean wasn’t at school at all.

_Ya see?_ Roman feels a mental slap upside the head, but he’s not sure if the voice that’s talking is his own or someone else, _You’ve barely known him a week and you’re already taking charge of him?_

It was the leader instincts, he reasoned.

( _Yeah, that’s what they are,_ argues the voice.)

* * *

Of course, come Tuesday afternoon, Roman is a little bit relieved when he finds Dean standing by Seth’s locker.

He’s donning his usual leather jacket, worn jeans, and a thin tee shirt, that Roman can see, and is talking real quite to Seth as he gets the books he needed for homework and puts them into his backpack near-soundlessly. By the time Roman makes it a couple feet behind them, Seth looks up in his direction and is greeted cheerily, with Dean’s head turning immediately in the same direction.

Looks okay, from what he can tell. But he definitely doesn’t look that happy to see Roman coming their way. Not that he looked mad, but almost ... sad?

“Hey, Ambrose.”

Dean’s eyes are cloudy, not as bright as they usually are. Roman musters a little grin anyway, but it does nothing to change it. “Hey.”

Seth finishes putting his things in his backpack and zips it up, swinging it over his shoulder with Herculean effort; he even manages to grunt, perhaps for dramatic effect, but perhaps not, with how thin his body was. “Dude, I don’t know what to tell you. Later. Bye, Rome.”

Roman watches him leave in a hurry, probably to catch his bus, before he turns to where Dean was standing ... only to find he had already started walking off. Put off by this, he walks after him, even if that meant he was walking in the opposite direction of detention.

“You alright?”

Dean doesn’t answer, digging his hands in his jean pockets. And Roman knows he probably shouldn’t push, so he doesn’t, instead slowing down and letting Dean leave. It looks like he staggers a bit, like he wants to stop too, but he keeps going until he’s out the door, into the heavy downpour that had come from nowhere.

Rain meant no practice today, which meant Roman got to be home at a normal time for once.

“See you around,” Roman says softly, but he knows it wasn’t loud enough for Dean to hear.

He’s not sure why the walk to detention feels more like a Walk of Shame, but with the way Dean looked like a kicked puppy in Roman’s direction, it might as well be.

It’s a long hour of staring at the words in his book and pretending he knows what any of them mean. The rain is making him tired, like he could fall asleep any minute, so he closes his book and shoves it into his backpack. He tucks his head into the crook of his arm and pulls out his phone, unlocking it, and scrolls through his notifications.

A comment thread between his cousins and himself is the first thing that shows up, and he clicks on it to see if there were any new messages. There weren’t. He then checks to see if anyone had anything interesting to say on Facebook – Seth was having a back-and-forth with a kid at another school named Punk, while Mojo and Zack Ryder were taking selfies together at some restaurant. Other than wondering idly if they were an item or just stupidly-close friends, he continued down the page some more.

He wonders if Dean has a Facebook, but has to mentally erase the very thought. By the way he looked today, the last thing he should do is go snooping around to see if he does. Turning the screen off and sitting up in his chair, he glances at the clock.

He’s got about five minutes left.

Roman starts to groan, but he quickly turns it into clearing his throat instead. Apparently, Mr. Regal gains his full attention, and he musters an embarrassed grin before looking down at his lap. This was going to be the longest five minutes of his life.

* * *

He lied. The last five minutes of detention were _not_ the longest five minutes of his life.

Driving home _after_ detention was the longest five minutes of his life.

Once he had been released, he got up quickly and grabbed his things, intent on getting to his car as quickly as possible so he didn’t get soaked. The rain was so much that water was gushing down the parking lot into the sewer, and as he ran across the lot with his backpack over his head, it sloshed into his sneakers and soaked his feet. By the time he got into his car, he was pretty sure his feet were swimming in his shoes, and he uttered a curse.

Roman _wants_ to go through the motions of taking his shoe off and squeezing out his sock, but the image of him doing it is almost as frustrating as if he were to actually do it, so he grinds his teeth and starts his car, intent on getting the hell out of there.

The five minutes from the school parking lot to his house is the same as it had always been, sometimes stretching to ten if he had to stop at the store to get something for Mom.

Roman sighs so hard his cheeks puff with it, and he slowly makes his way in the direction of home.

He doesn’t make it very far before he sees someone in the rain, standing at a crosswalk that’s directly under a stoplight. And of course, it’s red. Of _course_ it is. So he leans back in his seat, drums his fingers on the steering wheel to the song that’s playing oh-so quietly on the radio, and waits for the light to turn.

And maybe he’s a little more tired than he originally thought, or he’s just plain crazy, but he could _swear_ ...

The person’s head is down, but he can see the glow of a cigarette hanging out of their mouth. In fact, when the person pulls the cigarette close to their mouth to get another drag, he can see a pointed nose, the piercing eyes glaring at the stick like it wronged their whole family, before they exhale the smoke out like they were spitting in someone’s face. Such ... hateful movements, but as the light turned green, Roman couldn’t help but keep sitting there.

The person decides to move then, perhaps realizing that Roman was waiting, and he waves at them as they hobble across the street. They ... appear to be limping, and it dampens Roman’s mood a bit more, but he lets them go and offers another wave as they make it to the other side. From there, he starts to drive again.

Who would be stupid enough to be out and about in this weather? He could remember a time where he and his cousins, barely out of diapers, would be out playing in the rain and making his mother and father mud pies, but he is pretty sure he’s never seen a person out in something like _this._ But they looked plenty warm enough, in long pants and a hood and a l...

...a leather jacket.

Was that...?

Roman swears to _God_ he must have some weird luck – good or bad, he’s not sure, but it’s definitely weird – as he shakes his head, coming to the realization that if who he had just seen _was_ Dean Ambrose, he was going to ... well, probably laugh, laugh so hard someone might think he was mad.

He hadn’t gotten very far, and neither had the other person, before he rolls down his window and calls out,

“What the _hell_ are you doing out in this shit, Ambrose?”

It’s a fifty-fifty chance, and after the person turns to him like a deer in headlights and squints like they’re trying to make out his face in the rain, he takes a step back like Roman’s about to kill him. But it _is_ Dean, the hood over his head hiding his light brown hair but his face looking all-too familiar.

“D-Don’t ... you have football or somethin’?”

Roman looks up at the rain, then back at Dean, and raises an eyebrow.

Dean blinks, then does that sharp laugh. It sounds more like he’s choking. “Yeah ... well, I’m gonna go--”

“Don’t you wanna ride?”

“ _No_ , I don’t fuckin’ _want a ride_.” Dean looks like he doesn’t even believe himself, and Roman opens his mouth to catch him, but Dean stops him. “Just leave me alone. ‘ve fucked up your life enough.”

The speed at which Roman shuts his mouth is lightning, and he does it so hard that his teeth click together. He’s got about enough time to work together the words in his head, but he only gets as far as “You ha--” before a car horn beeps impatiently behind him. He looks in his rear view mirror, purses his lips, before mustering what was probably a very confused look in the direction Dean had been standing. He had disappeared, and he sighs as he rolls his window back up and starts the drive home.

It’s a very long, very quiet, five minutes.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dean voice] ahoy! 
> 
> ...i have quite a few chapters waiting in the queue, so maybe next weekend the next part will come out. idk man, i've been crankin' stuff out lately. i wanted to try writing something holiday-themed, so we'll see how far i get with that, too. oh boy!

It’s like an abrupt end to a friendship, even if they weren’t quite friends, the way Dean had said what he said. It was one thing if it had actually been warranted, like if Dean had _actually_ done something to make him be hated, but he hadn’t. Making mistakes wasn’t a death sentence, it was a bit of detention and moving on.

And it wasn’t like it messed with his normal schedule that much; football practice was a few hours, and he only missed the first half-hour, so he easily made it up during the rest of the time. All that was different was that Dean didn’t show up anymore. No skin off Roman’s nose, because he had practiced just fine without him there, but he has to admit he had gotten used to seeing him in the halls, on his way to detention, and sometimes he even found himself thinking he enjoyed it.

But maybe it was for the best. After all, Roman had to really focus and play his best football this year in order to continue on through college. It was bad enough that he had detention _because_ of Dean, he didn’t have to go getting comfortable with him, too.

So life goes on, as it does. Dean stays in his lane, whatever it might be, and Roman stays in his.

And things go back to normal.

* * *

...or, at least they do for a couple days.

They’re a pretty uneventful two days; he does his work, carries on through the halls like nothing ever happened, goes to football practice, and goes home. Doesn’t see Dean much, except when he sees Seth, which is during the lunch block. And _that_ was only on days where he decided to check his phone near his locker. And when he _did_ and he happened to look over in their direction, Seth was always animatedly talking to him about some video game or the Irish exchange student or something, and Dean would just ... _sit there._

He didn’t look like he wanted to be there, but it also looked like it wasn’t his choice.

On the third day, a Game Day, Roman is stopped in the hall by Seth, who looks annoyed.

“Rome, can I ask you something?”

“What?” He was on his way to his last class of the day, a couple of his teammates on either side of him, when Seth bound over to him like a man on a mission. When the other boys saw Seth, they greeted him kindly, before telling Roman that they’d meet him in class.

Seth looks at them briefly, a look of recognition quick on his lips, before he looks back at Roman, who nods his head for him to get on with it already.

“You don’t ... _hate_ Ambrose, do ya?”

It’s comical, almost, how Roman does a literal double-take when Seth asked. Where the hell did _that_ idea come from? “What?”

“Look, he’s under the impression that he’s some piece of shit that ruined your life. Between you and me, I bet his step-dad put that in his head, but like, he thinks you hate him and don’t want him around.”

“Well, shit, it’s not like we’re best friends or anything, sure, but I don’t hate him.”

Seth nods his head rather jerkily, like he’d tried to say that over and over, and dragged his hand through his hair. “Okay, well...! That’s settled!” Nothing was settled, or at least it didn’t feel like it. “You should go to class – you’re leavin’ early for the game, right?”

“I got detention. I’m meeting the team afterwards.”

“Oooh, that’s right! Maybe that’s why Ambrose thinks you hate him!”

“Oh, I don’t,” Roman says quickly, “I’m not overly thrilled about it, but it is what it is.” _Pop is way more pissed about it than I am, anyway,_ Roman thinks afterwards. He finds it a better idea to keep that thought to himself, though. “I gotta go, man. Class calls. See ya around.”

After they go their separate ways, Roman heads to his final class. His day resumes, like it always does, and eventually he is able to carry out his detention and go play football.

* * *

The team was really on their toes tonight, listening and watching, and they earned another win. Roman’s ankle doesn’t give on him this time, and he goes home feeling relatively good, albeit tired. Pop’s gone back to not speaking to him, but that’s okay, because Roman _really_ doesn’t want to deal with anymore guilt-tripping.

* * *

Of all places, Roman runs into Dean again at the beach on Sunday.

The beach is pretty busy, even when Roman gets there at 10am, so he tries to traverse the stretch of colorful bodies until he finds an open spot. Of course, as he starts toward the water, he never sees someone putting down a towel practically right on top of his own, and he’s blissfully unaware of it until he come back to sit in the sun.

Dean’s wearing a tank top and a red bathing suit, a pair of ugly sunglasses – it’s not a judgement thing, it’s fact; even the prettiest person couldn’t pull them off, they’re that ugly, but here he is wearing them anyway – and his hair in messy, wild curls in front of his face. Looks like he hasn’t noticed Roman coming back, but he _definitely_ looks up when Roman is standing in his sun, dripping hair sending ribbons of sea water down his chest, sand sticking to his toes.

“Did you see my towel, or just ignore it?”

Dean looks up at him, cracks a little grin, and shrugs his shoulders. “Didn’t know it was yours. I’ll move--”

“Wait!”

And he does, Roman’s hand poised over him like he’s about to touch his arm, but he quickly pulls it back and steps on the offending towel. “Hol’ on. I got a bone to pick with you, Ambrose.”

“Get off my towel, _Reigns_ ,” Like it would make a difference, Dean gives it a small tug, but Roman doesn’t budge. “Dude, c’mon...”

Roman sits on his own towel, stretching his feet onto Dean’s to keep it in place. “A week ago, I saw you everywhere, you were comin’ to my practices sometimes. Now, I’m lucky if I see you for a split second and you ditch as soon as I do. I couldn’t have gotten rid of you if I wanted to.”

All humor melts away as soon as Roman starts prattling off his list, and the sand becomes increasingly interesting as he speaks, and quiet spreads out between them when he’s finished. Dean looks like he’d rather have some sand monster come up from the sand and devour him whole, and Roman notices the way a very physical barrier puts itself between them.

“’s better this way,” Dean mutters, maybe to himself.

“Better for who?”

Dean works his jaw at that, Roman can see the strain of it, before Dean starts to get up. And like he always does, Roman doesn’t push, even if he feels he should. He does, however, hold onto Dean’s shin, giving him pause so he can say one final thing to him.

“I don’t hate you, Dean. Whatever you think you did to make me hate you ... you’re wrong. I don’t know you, but I don’t hate you.”

Dean had been ready to leave, to pick up and go elsewhere, but as soon as Roman says this, he freezes. It’s that deer in headlights look all over again, and although he doesn’t really like it anymore than the last time, Roman is a little grateful he hasn’t run off.

Looks like he’s just about to, though.

But of course, once the words have really sunk in, he turns skeptical and narrows his eyes, blue as the water, in Roman’s direction. “Did Seth put you up to this shit?”

All Roman can do is shrug. “He might have mentioned it, but it’s not about that. This was gonna happen anyway.”

Dean shakes his leg, getting it free of Roman’s hand; he does a lot of back and forth, that Roman can tell, taking a step away but turning back, looking out at the water, at his feet, to the road ... before he folds his arms so his hands clutch at his biceps. “So, what, ya wanna be friends or whatever?”

Roman makes himself comfortable on his towel, stretching out his long legs and leaning back on his arms; thanks to training at home and practice every day, he’s gotten pretty muscular, though he isn’t big like a lot of the other guys on the team. He’s not the smallest either, though, and he finds himself growing a little insecure about it suddenly.

“No harm in trying. Then we can know for sure if I don’t like you.”

It’s a lot like the sun peeking out through storm clouds, the way Dean’s smile emerges onto his lips. It lights up his entire face, but it goes as quick as it comes, and he forces nonchalance, shrugging his shoulders and sitting down beside Roman. “Okay, okay, jeez, don’t twist my arm off.”

Roman laughs, a real laugh, for the first time in what feels like a while. And when Dean joins in, low and quiet, it feels like everything is normal again.

* * *

Normal, once, was sticking to routine: wake up early, do a morning workout, eat breakfast, go to school. After school was practice, go home, eat dinner, do homework. Rinse and repeat, day after day. The only day when things would change was Friday, Game Days, but even then it was the same thing every Friday.

From freshman year to now, senior year, that’s what had been ‘normal’ for Roman Reigns, and not even family could break him from it unless it was against his will, though the only ones who ever tried were Jimmy and Jey, his twin cousins.

Fast-forward a little, then pause; a misunderstanding leads to punishment, a wrench in his ‘normal’, and another misunderstanding leads to the most unlikely of friends. The wrench, Dean Ambrose, becomes an important addition to his ‘normal’, and they spend almost every afternoon in each other’s orbit: Dean comes to Roman’s practices almost every day, and if it’s a Home game, he shows up for those, too.

There are days when he doesn’t go to school, and just like the first time, Roman is concerned, but he always comes back. Sometimes it’s longer than others, almost a full week, but Dean never talks about it. That concerns Roman more.

He’s playing good ball, Coach says, strong in his tackles and smart, taking over as leader on the field when Coach can’t be heard over the screaming crowds. And the team listens, mostly, following his commands and nodding their heads, giving their approval of the change in Roman that’s been going on, and he has to admit he’s a bigger fan of this brand-new normal than of his old one.

Pop has started talking to him again, and although he isn’t sure what’s gotten _into_ Roman lately, he isn’t really complaining. Training resumes, and on Sundays, Roman spends his day off with his cousins, walking around town without a care in the world and eating greasy fast food.

He’d have to ask Dean for his number, so he could invite him next time. He’s sure his cousins, who are a couple of fun-loving boys who enjoy embarrassing their barely-older cousin, would enjoy an audience, someone snarky and willing to give as good as he could take, like Dean.

Yeah ... it was nice to be back to normal.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter warning: implied child abuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter's got some not-fun elements to it. be careful. proceed with caution. 
> 
> (i try to keep a few chapters ahead of the chapter i'm getting ready to upload, so i had to finish 15 before i uploaded 10. make sense? good! let's a-go.) 
> 
> ((i edited this quick. if i missed something, let me know so i can fix it. -makes a heart with hands-))

“So, let me get this straight,” Roman says through clenched teeth, doing his best to keep his voice at a lower decibel as he, Jimmy and Jey waited in line to get their lunch, “You two are throwin’ some party that you _forgot_ to tell me until _right now_ I’m getting the drinks for, even though the two of you _jackasses_ know that I have  to really put my all into this football season- ... _and_ you expect me to, what, tell Pop ‘Oh hey, by the way, I know I’m  super busy but hey, how ‘bout we skip a training day?’. Are you outta your damned mind?” 

Jimmy, the one who had sprung this on him, simply shrugged his shoulder, used to the rare outbursts Roman had when he tended to get stressed. “Dude, this is what I’m  _talking_ about! You’re so tense,  stressin’ about things weeks in advance! You’re, like ...”

“...stressin’ about next week’s stress, and the next week’s, _uce_ ,” Jey interrupted, role more the mediator than the instigator. That was Jimmy’s role through and through. “We get it, you’re busy, but you _gotta_ make time for you too. Skip a day, bring your dude, it’ll be good fun.” 

Lately, the twins had started referring to Dean as his ‘dude’, which didn’t really bother him so much as give them the wrong idea; their friendship was new,  like kids meeting in kindergarten, but they had settled back into comfortable teasing back-and-forths when they got back to school .  The idea of a party sounded a little bit more appealing to Roman when they mentioned Dean, but it didn’t change the fact that he was still busy, and the only time he’d be busier would be nea r graduation.

Once the three got their meals – Jimmy and Jey each got wraps, one tomato and one wheat, loaded with ham or turkey and vegetables while Roman opted for the  somehow-under-and-overcooked beef macaroni – they sat down at a table in the middle, other athletes taking up some of the other chairs, turned around to other tables and generally ignoring the three as their conversation continued. 

“Ooh, that reminds me. Think your dude could bring napkins? Plastic cutlery, perhaps?”

At that, Roman rolls his eyes before picking at his food. There was nothing that quite embodied the kind of disappointment that came with getting school lunch, nothing in the world. “ What makes you think you can pawn off your grocery list from me to Dean, ‘uh? Lazy ass, go get your own damn napkins.” 

Jey raises his hand, not quite meekly, but as if he was putting himself back in harm’s way. On Roman’s behalf, of course. “I got cutlery and napkins. All Dean has to bring is you.”

Roman puts a decently-sized forkful of the macaroni into his mouth,  chewing it a little too forcefully. God, what did they make this out of, cardboard and cold store-bought sauce? His mother, of Italian descent, would be offended. 

Across the cafeteria, somewhere between swallowing and his next bite, Roman can see Dean running in so fast he nearly knocks over one of the large  trash  bins, crashing into it with a very audible “Fuck!”.  Roman hones in on him immediately, knowing that he didn’t have this block, that the first time he usually sees him is on his way to detention... which, he was finally going to be rid of after Friday afternoon, thank fucking  _God._

H e can’t believe it’s been four weeks already...

...but what he  _can_ believe is that, in very Dean-like fashion, his reverie is broken – more like thrown away into oblivion – by hands on his shoulders and exhausted panting from none-other than-- “Dean, what’s goin’ on?” 

“Can’t ... talk!” he sputters, pushing himself away from Roman when a particularly loud _bang!_ erupts from the hallway. “...fuck! Gotta...!”

“ _ **Ambrose!**_ ” 

“Shit!” 

Dean books it from Roman’s side, pushing his way through students  like they had  _no right_ to be in his path, and a kid who looked  like he was on a warpath, anger radiating from every pore and steaming out his ears, barrels on through the sea of students, shoving until students fell onto the floor or chairs squeaked in protest to being moved. This was bad, this was very bad, and Roman could sense the desperation as the kid soared through the crowd. 

His eyes flicked over to Dean, who was stopped on the other side of the cafeteria by two other guys blocking his only safe route.

The cafeteria was quiet mostly, some grumbles and mutters under their breath just about the only soundtrack to whatever the  _hell_ was going on. Roman throws down his fork, tells his cousins to go get Principal Helmsley, and gets out of his chair so roughly that the chair skids on the tile floor. 

He is  _not_ about to watch a fight break out in the cafeteria when Dean is on the wrong side of it. 

“Hey! What’s goin’ on!” 

The barrel  of laughs who had stormed the cafeteria turns to Roman, wrinkling his nose. “Back up, jockstrap, I got a  _bone_ to pick with Dean here.” 

Dean growls, actually  _growls_ , at the kid. “Don’t talk to him like that.”

The other kid laughs, but there is no cheer in it whatsoever. It almost makes Dean’s laugh sound angelic by comparison. Roman stands at Dean’s side, an eyebrow raised, daring the kid to say it again, to say anything else, to challenge him. Raising his chin, he works his jaw. That only makes the kid laugh harder. “Ooh, he knows something other than ‘Ah! Don’t hit me again!’ So tough, Ambrose.”

Dean’s breath catches in his throat. “Shut your mouth, Corbin.”

Roman clears his throat and puts his hand on Dean’s chest, carefully pushing him back; under his hand, he can feel Dean thrumming with energy, practically vibrating with it. Under his hand, Roman can feel Dean’s heartbeat, too, and it’s beating so fast he contemplates putting 911 on speed-dial in the future. His eyes search Dean’s face, how angry he looks, how he’s avoiding Roman’s gaze like if he gives in he might break.

After a 3-second deliberation, Roman decides that expression is so much worse than the deer-in-headlights one.

Corbin doesn’t fall for the threat, instead grabbing Roman by the arm and shoving him bodily out of the way. “Move it, Reigns,  this is none of you-- ah!” 

Roman had been pushed a couple steps to the side, so he didn’t see what had cut off Corbin’s words. As he turns around, however, he can see Dean shaking out his hand, shaking it at his side, and Corbin clutching at his face. It takes about 2-seconds to put together what happened, especially when Dean clutches at his left hand, looking down at the spatters of blood that speckled across his pale skin.

Corbin, an amalgamation of bewilderment and anger, stares at Dean wide-eyed.

Dean says, all grit teeth and bristling,  simply says, “Don’t. Touch him.” 

“What’s going on over here, boys.”

Roman looks over his other shoulder, Principal Helmsley standing over them like a mountain, his gaze firm and lips pressed in a tight enough line that his lips practically disappear. Someone whispers something under his breath that sounds like “Fuck...” but honestly, with all that’s happened in the past couple minutes, he isn’t really sure if that was Dean or himself.

“Dean just punched me!” Corbin says, “I think he broke my nose!”

Principal Helmsley looks like he doesn’t want to consider Dean has a side, and Roman knows he won’t ask and that Dean won’t tell, so he turns fully to look the Principal Helmsley in the eye. “Dean didn’t start it, sir. He was...”

“Roman, don’t,” Dean says in barely a whisper, turning his head to the side. It’s not a nice whisper, a secret tangled in the words, promises and sweet nothings. Roman is more surprised that he used his full first name, and looks at him with wide eyes. “Please, don’t.” Dean’s eyes squeeze shut at that, hand clutching his sore hand tight as a vice, before he swallows. 

But while they were having whatever moment they were having, Principal Helmsley clears his throat, bringing the attention back to him. He had shooed Corbin away, it seemed, probably to visit the nurse to get his nose checked out. He looked pretty mad. “Well? He was what, Mr. Reigns?”

Pressing the tip of his tongue behind his lower lip, jutting it out in frustration, he squares up. “Corbin shoved me, and Dean reacted for me. It’s my fault, I was instigating. It won’t happen again, sir.”

Principal Helmsley looked Roman up and down, seemed content with his explanation, at who it came from, and turned to Dean. “Alright. But don’t let it happen again, Ambrose, you hear? You’re walking on thin ice, boy. Don’t touch him again.”

Dean nods, doesn’t say anything, and doesn’t look up as  Principal Helmsley walks away. Roman nods his head too, for good measure, and watches the principal walk away. Above them, a bell rings, signal ling the end of the first lunch block. Dean’s was the second, Roman knew, and he currently had an off-period, so he was in no rush to get anywhere else. But apparently, Dean was, as he pushed past him. 

“Dean wait-”

“Don’t.” The fact that Roman can’t find any wiggle-room in that one word, not even enough to gasp, makes his whole chest ache. “I told you not to, I _told_ ... And now...!” 

“Hey, hey. I’m sorry. But I wasn’t about to let him do ... whatever he was gonna do!”

“You don’t _know_ what he was gonna do! Worst he might’a done is give me outta-school suspension, or detention – now I get nothing and Corbin’s prob’ly got a broken nose and he’s gonna fuckin’ _kill me_.” 

Roman does a visible double-take. “Corbin?”

Dean’s entire body moves with a startled gasp, like he had said something on accident, and he turns and gives Roman that deer-in-headlights look again. This time, Roman takes a step toward him, and for the first time since he’d known Dean, he pushes.

“Dean, talk to me, man.”

“No...” he shakes his head, a little frantic, eyes wild and glossy, and he gulps audibly. “Roman, please, forget I said anything. _Fuck._ ” 

Dean turns away, starts walking in the other direction, and Roman gives him a few seconds. Just until he’s out of the cafeteria, where he goes after him. There’s a bathroom in the front hallway where they are, and without warning, he grabs Dean by the back of his shirt and pulls him into the bathroom, yelling “If anyone’s in here, get the hell out!” once he’s inside the room.

It’s empty, and he releases Dean, opening his arms as if wishing for Dean to try and run so he could catch him and not let go. “Dean, I’m serious. You can’t expect me to shake that off.”

“God _dammit_.” 

Dean’s doing that thing again that he did a few weeks back, arms wrapped around himself, hands clutching at his biceps tightly. His nails, short and chewed, dig into his arms and he bends forward a little as he takes a deep breath. Roman steadies him, puts a hand on his shoulder, giving it a concerned squeeze.

“Dean. I can’t help if you don’t talk.”

“You can’t help.”

“I want to.” Roman helps Dean stand, looking into his eyes, which are shining under the fluorescent lights inside the bathroom. “I _want_ to help, but I need you to tell me who.” 

The sniff that follows is a lot louder in the bathroom. It echoes off every tile, every porcelain sink, every mirror. As Dean gets his words in order, or tries to, Roman pulls him toward the sink, where he takes a paper towel from the dispenser and turns on the tap, running the paper under the water for a few seconds until it’s soaked. Turning off the water and squeezing out some of the water in the same breath, he drapes the wet paper towel over Dean’s knuckles, wiping at them carefully.

Dean’s transfixed on this, watching with mild interest, like he’s never seen someone do that before. Roman can almost guarantee he hasn’t. With a final shuddered breath, Dean looks up at Roman.

“I can’t, Roman. I ... just _can’t_.” 

Roman chews on his bottom lip, hoping for a different answer, but nods instead of pleading more. He’s pushed Dean enough today. “Okay.”

But he knows, he can  _feel_ it, that everything is  _not_ okay.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been on a roll lately - who knows, maybe i'll make a habit of updating in a more-normal time frame?? i mean. don't count on it but - hey, let's take this li'l bit of active muse for what it is, yeah? 
> 
> promise. things will start looking better soon. thanks everyone for (... -gasp- ... over 1.6K hits...) all the continued support and patience. makes writing this beast so much easier, and more enjoyable. stay tuned!
> 
> (as always, if you notice any inconsistencies, let me know.)

His mother had always taught him never to jump to conclusions, and Roman was never the kind to go against his mother – a bit of a Mama’s Boy, or so his cousins have teased – but the nagging feeling that something was very, very wrong with Dean just wouldn’t go away; the possibly-broken-nose fiasco had been a couple days ago, and he hadn’t seen Dean since that day, and it would be a couple of days still that he’d see him at all.

Didn’t know Dean’s phone number, address ... didn’t know if he was okay. Nothing.

“ _Uce_? You with us?”

Roman jumps at the sound of Jimmy’s voice cutting through his daydream, narrowing brown eyes over at his cousin where he sat next to him in the library; he and his cousins, rowdy pack of teenage boys they were, all had the same off-period, so they spent that time in the library. They rarely did actual work, but there was a back room for tutoring that had computers and a bunch of tables sat up in the middle.

Under the guise of ‘doing homework’, Roman and his cousins spent time they weren’t in classes in there.

Jimmy’s expression is no less amused than someone who caught his cousin thinking of something filthy. Roman wasn’t, doesn’t really have thoughts like that, but the shit-eating grin his cousin’s got on his face makes this warm tingle appear on his cheeks. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m here.”

_You know who isn’t, though?_ The voice in his head snaps. Sounds like a mix between Dean and himself, a low drawl of a thing that crawls around his head. It’s not helpful in the least in keeping his spirits up.

“Is this about your dude?” Jey asked, innocence and brown eyes. “’cause he hasn’t been in school?”

‘Your dude’. Roman doesn’t have the energy to react. He’s worried himself until he’d become drained from it. “Is it that obvious?”

“No less obvious than if you stapled a piece of paper that said ‘I’m worried’ on your forehead. Did y’all get in a fight, or what?”

“ _I can’t help if you don’t talk.”_

“ _You can’t help.” _

Was it a fight? And what could he get away with saying? He couldn’t skip to conclusions, but visions of his bruised body in the woods a few weeks ago flashed to the front of his mind again. And, now that he thought about it, Corbin had chosen some specific words the other day ...

Roman wouldn’t push. But, he had to urge, he had to try.

“Somethin’ to that effect.”

It must have been the tone of voice, this forced sound that added some dark lilt to the smooth baritone that was his normal voice. Jimmy doesn’t look put off by it ... in fact, it broadens his grin, the fucker. Jey, however, looks rightfully concerned.

“Is it about that guy Dean punched?”

He’s not sure where it comes from, but this deep, rumbling _growl_ emanates from somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach, like he was an angry, hungry dog.

“If it makes you feel any better, _uce_ , it’s a clean break. Whatever he did, Dean made him pay for it.”

That snaps Roman’s attention back, but he still feels anger swirled around his blood. “He didn’t really do much. Just shoved me a little, said something shitty to Dean, but ... his nose is really broken?”

Jey, who was the one who had filled Roman in on this, nods his head. Looks a little relieved, if Roman was honest with himself, though he’s not quite sure why he would be. “Hell yeah. Can’t believe Dean would do that to his own brother over something like touching you, though. Seems pretty bizarre.”

“Yeah, I dunno b-- did you say _brother_?”

Jimmy, who had been perhaps half-listening for that entire exchange, looks surprised. “...well, they’re _step_ -brothers, but brothers nonetheless.”

Roman feels like the smoke inside his brain was being let outside an open window. “You know him? Corbin, or Baron, or whoever?”

“Well, not _know_ -know. We had a couple classes together last year. He’s in our grade, Rome. Dean’s a school-year younger, even though he’s only a few months younger. Don’t know the story there, but the rumors are that he either got in a fight and got expelled and had to repeat his sophomore year, or he started school later ‘cause someone higher didn’t think he was smart enough. Harsh.”

That takes the smoke right out, followed by this cloud of sadness. How could someone say that? “I didn’t even know there _were_ rumors.” _Poor Dean._

“Yeah. The same way there are rumors about a lot of stuff, _uce._ Welcome to public school.”

The wind was taken right out of Roman’s sails at that. _I’d hate to know w_ _hat else they’re talkin’ about_ _..._

Doesn’t get a chance to ask, though, as the bell sounds above them signaling for the end of the class. Jimmy and Jey stand first, giving each other looks over Roman’s hunched body, before Jimmy leans down and says, “Look, I’m sorry I told you that shit. You know Dean ain’t got anything wrong with ‘em, and a friend of yours is a friend of ours. Bring him to the party, we’ll all have a good time. Get our minds off all this shit.”

Roman hums noncommittally. Then, as his cousins are halfway out of the library, he stands and reaches out for them to stop them. “I already told you. I got too much goin' on.”

Jimmy turns around, Cheshire-cat grin in place. “Yeah, sure. Okay.”

If Roman didn’t know any better, he’d have _sworn_ that was the same look he’d given him before he dragged him outta the house to go to Cena’s party.

... yeah, no, that was _definitely_ the look he’d given him back then.

* * *

It could have been a coincidence that, after football practice gets out and Roman’s made it back to his car, that he finds himself parked in the spot he had been weeks prior, the line of apartment complexes before him staring at him like even _they_ knew he wasn’t meant to be here; he had showered briefly in the locker room, wet his hair and gave his body a quick wash too, so that he could try to talk himself out of doing this, but it hadn’t been enough time, and here he was.

One of these apartments – duplexes – had to be Dean’s. And if he couldn’t find him tonight, he’d go to Coach tomorrow, or maybe Mr. Regal. Something about this didn’t feel right.

It wasn’t about proving himself right or wrong right now, though if it was, he was positive he wasn’t wrong. The bruise on Dean’s shoulder, the creaky way he walks – hunched in on himself, like one wrong move and he’d scream – to how guarded he was about contact or wary about kindness

It wasn’t a coincidence anymore, though, when he smells before he hears the sound of someone nearby, the smell of their cigarette strong enough for Roman to decipher that they were nearby. Rolling up his car window and stepping out of it, he follows the smell, all while trying not to gag as the smell becomes more pungent, like a musty cellar.

There isn’t much on the other side of the apartments aside from a small grassy hill, a couple of benches placed at the top. At one of them, sits a black-jacket wearing, shaggy-haired figure, and Roman immediately heads over.

If Dean sees him, he doesn’t react, and the most he does when Roman gets there and sits down is flinch so hard he drops his cigarette into the dirt. Instinctively, he digs his dirty sneaker onto it to snuff it out before he exhales.

He looks like he’d been through hell, Dean does; his face is worn down, flushed slightly and wet, a mark under his eye a light purple, his bottom lip swollen and red with blood. Doesn’t bring any attention to his obvious condition, and neither does Roman, who leans his elbows on his knees and stares down at grass.

One second of silence turned to ten, but at the eleven mark, Roman just can’t take it anymore.

“What’s cookin’, good lookin’?”

The sound that gets pulled from Dean is somewhere between a laugh and a sob, but he’s got a bit of a grin on his face – not snarky, more like he’s trying to will the real thing to appear there – for about half a second before his face completely crumples. Roman quickly springs to action, dropping a hand carefully on Dean’s shoulder by means of comfort, before Dean winces and lets out a hiss.

“Sorry!” Roman quickly pulls his hand away, instead leaning his arm on the back of the bench. “Dean, hey, what happened? Let me see your-”

“’s fine.” Too short. That was too short and Roman knows it was meant to be.

_Don’t push,_ his conscience reminds him. _No pushing. You know what happened last time you pushed._

“Never mind, alright? You alright?”

“Fine.”

_Steady..._

“Well, I’m not in a rush to get home tonight.” Nice and easy. Go slow. Don’t push, _urge_. “Want to go for a drive?”

“...t’where.”

Shrugging, Roman tries not to be too excited that he wasn’t given an immediate brush. “Want to go anywhere specifically?”

“Nowhere you can take me.”

The stormy temper is reeling, thrashing, and Roman’s fingers twitch. Dean looks over, wipes at his face, before he says, “Don’t act all worried ‘n shit. Cut it out.”

“I’m not acting,” Roman has to force the anger out of his voice. The anger wasn’t at Dean, this wasn’t his fault, but he wasn’t sure who it was really meant for yet. More interrogating was in order, but later. “And I won’t. I told you I want to help. Come on, let’s go.”

It takes Dean a second to move, but he does eventually. Leans down to grab a giant gym bag, which Roman hadn’t seen stashed beside him, but he quickly takes it upon himself to carry it. Dean glares but doesn’t argue, allowing Roman to lead him to the car before folding himself slowly, carefully, in the passenger’s seat.

“What’s in the bag?” Roman asks after he’s stowed it in the middle seat.

Dean shifts. “Clothes mostly. Picture. Money.”

Roman pulls away from the apartments and gets on the main road, wondering idly if he should bring Dean home or somewhere else first. “Oh yeah? Where you planning on goin’ with that?”

“What’s it t’you?!” Dean snaps, but seems like he immediately regrets it, wincing.

“It’s okay,” it honestly is, because it’s not like Roman’s never been emotional and snapped at someone not on-purpose. To show him it was, though, he reaches over and pats Dean’s knee a couple of times. “You were running away, right?”

Not an accusation, or even a scold. Dean swallows, ducks his head down to stare at his lap. “Can’t be there anymore.”

_Why not?_ He doesn’t ask. That’s asking too much of Dean, to disclose something like that right now. So instead, Roman pauses, stops at the light that’s turned yellow – he’s not in a huge rush, his curfew is 11pm – and looks to Dean carefully. “Where were you gonna go?”

For a few seconds, Dean is quiet, just staring at his lap. Roman’s hand is still on his knee, thumb carefully pressing into the side of his kneecap. In the time it takes for the traffic light to turn green again, there’s nothing but silence, the question hanging in the air. Roman wants an answer before he gets to the next intersection, wants to know if he had a plan before he turns onto his street.

When Dean says something, it’s with a voice that was sharp. “I don’t know, okay? A hotel room, a fuckin’ bench somewhere.”

“How about my place?”

A brand new look crosses Dean’s face then, makes his eyes swallow up most of his face. “I can’t ... you can’t do that. Don’t do that.”

“So what, I’m just supposed to let you sleep on a bench? Think that’s what I’m about?”

Roman can see Dean working his jaw, trying to maybe pretend he does think that, but there’s just a little too much caution in his eyes too. Maybe he doesn’t think that at all. “What makes you think it’s got anything to do with you?”

The wrench just threw its own into Roman’s brain, stalling the working parts up there until they screeched to a stop; what was that supposed to mean? If he and Dean were friends, and Dean was about to make the wrong choice between sleeping on a bench and sleeping in a warm bed, why _wouldn’t_ it have anything to do with him? It’s a good thing Roman’s got something to keep himself in check – he’s a good driver, aware of his environment and smooth – because he might have just throttled Dean for a hair of a second.

“Do _not_ ,” Dean continues before Roman can get a word in, “-pretend like you care. We met, what, couple’a months ago? ‘n what, you all of a sudden give a _fuck_ about me? Newsflash, sunshine, the world ain’t sunshine and rainbows for everyone. Drive me back, ‘m good now.”

Something about what he’d said struck Roman the wrong way – of _course_ he didn’t believe that. His own life wasn’t sunshine and rainbows. He couldn’t imagine what Dean’s was like, but it wasn’t a pissing contest, ‘whose life was worse’ kind of situation, here. This was Dean’s _life_.

“ _Uso._ ”

Maybe it angered Dean to the point of silence. Maybe it shocked him, to hear Roman say such a simple word with so much power and strength and warmth. Whatever it was, it quieted him for a second, piercing eyes glistening under the streetlamps that glowed above them for a second before giving way to the next one further down the street. Roman might have grinned a little.

After a beat of just staring, Dean finally decides to ask, “...what’s that?”

“Samoan. It means ‘brother’.”

“Oh.”

More quiet stretches between them, and maybe it dawns on Dean the second they pull into Roman’s driveway. Maybe it does when they’re getting out, Roman handing over his duffel as he grabs his gym bag. When they make it through the nice lawn and up to the front door, where Roman raises his hand to the knob, Dean stops him, fingers cool and clammy and squeezing tight on his wrist.

“Me?”

His voice seems so small as he asked that Roman looks at him, needing to make sure it was still Dean Ambrose. It draws a smile to his lips, exhausted as he was, and he rasps his other hand against Dean’s on his wrist in a fist bump. When Dean looks down, his gaze hardens, but his hold on Roman’s wrist softens, is feather-light.

“You.”

Roman turns his hand around, grabs Dean’s hand and tugs him inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO GLAD THIS CHAPTER'S OUT, IT'S BEEN KILLIN ME okay i'm good now. c:


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a part two of sorts, to the last one. plus, i think you'll like a bit of this too. the ambreigns continues! 
> 
> (thanks for all the hits, kudos, and comments! the latter is a HUGE motivator and feeds my muse, which is good bc that means i can get chapters out! -not that it's a manipulation ploy, do or don't comment, but just know that everything you say is super helpful in the long-run! thanks again!)
> 
> ((i welcome messages/asks on tumblr too, in case you want to go on anon! i also have my submit box open, though hell if i know what you'd send me, but if you feel so inclined, have at it!))

It was some miracle-type shit, Roman thinks, that it turned out his father had a conference in California that he’d be at for the next couple weeks. Otherwise, he’s pretty sure Dean wouldn’t be able to stay on such short notice.

Of course, his mother was fine with it in the presence of their new house-guest. When she urged Dean to go bring his things upstairs and into Roman’s room – for now, they’d worry about where he’d really sleep after both boys were showered and fed – she had interrogated Roman like hell, asking “ _What, no phone call?_ ” and “ _Who even is this boy?_ ” and Roman told her what he knew, which was enough that at face value, he made Dean sound like an ordinary kid ... _somehow_.

And of course, she told Roman – and Dean, while Roman took his own shower – that he was welcome to stay the night, and they could figure out the rest later. Neither boy told her about Dean running away, the ‘who’ and the ‘why’. Though later, when Dean disappeared upstairs after a meal of homemade macaroni and cheese and homemade bread, she _did_ bring up that “ _At least the bruise on his shoulder looks to be healing._ ”

That made Roman want to shrink into a crack in the floor.

She knew, at least. His mom could help, being a social worker, a suffering boy like Dean.

Dean had slept in Roman’s room that night, curled up with his back against the wall. He didn’t take up a lot of space, even in a bed that could have comfortably fit them both, and Roman took note of the way he curled up like he wanted to be the smallest thing in the room. Early-early, before the sun had even thought to rise, he could have sworn he felt a cold hand pressed up against his own warmer one, but he might have imagined it, because Dean was still curled up against the wall when Roman woke up on his own at 5am.

It wasn’t much, but a light flickering on outside gave him just enough light to take in Dean’s sleeping form. He looked younger, like the two hadn’t been in a fight the previous day, like he’d never known a hardship in his life. In his examining, he noticed Dean’s lips puckered slightly, like he was deep in thought, and he felt the bed shift as Dean moved, right hand seeking out his shoulder and rubbing at it.

Roman didn’t bother hiding the way he let his eyes roam over the rest of Dean’s body – he was thin, not like the ‘healthy’ thin, but the ‘I might as well have been starved for a month’ thin. Through Dean’s thin tee shirt, he could see a rib or two, or at least he thought. But his eyes shifted up to his shoulder again, before they could venture anywhere else – _focus, Reigns, focus_ – when he took notice of the soft groan of pain and Dean’s hand squeezing the marked-up shoulder.

Roman quickly reached over, pulling at Dean’s hand and wincing when he felt how cold it was, and curled it into both of his to warm it up. “Come on, _uce._ Be kind to yourself.”

If Dean had heard him, he didn’t show it, but he let Roman hold onto his hand for a little while longer. At least until the alarm went off, where Dean jolted awake and reached over to try and shut the damn thing up ... at least, until he felt his hand clasped inside both of now-sleeping Roman’s.

“ _Be kind to yourself._ ”

Shaking his head and giving into his body’s instinct to yawn, tongue out and all, he looks around before scooting with great care around Roman to get to his bag.

Of course, Dean was about as graceful as a newborn deer, and he doesn’t realize his foot is tangled in the blanket. In the span of two seconds, he tugs to try and get free and falls completely on top of Roman, who jolts awake and immediately is countered off-balance by Dean hanging halfway off the bed. They topple off Roman’s side of the bed, and with reflexes unbecoming of Roman, he somehow manages to get himself between Dean and floor, letting out an “Oof!” into the quiet of his room.

“Fuck...” Dean whispers, like he was trying not to wake someone up. Of course, now he’s woken Roman up, and he’s got this annoyed look on his face as he looks up at Dean, which was paling by the second, shock on his face and fear in his eyes. Roman lets out a breath and scrubs his hands over his face. Not sure which of his emotions gets him to move, and not caring, Dean scrambles off of Roman, dislodging his foot from the blanket and gets as far away as possible.

“It’s fine,” Roman says, voice sleep-hoarse. “I had to get up anyway. Sleep okay?"

It takes a second, maybe five, for Dean to settle back into the quiet of the bedroom, before he answers. “Y-yeah. Fine. Yer’ bed’s comfy.”

“Tha’ks,” Roman says around a yawn. “Made it myself.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “That was terrible, and you should _feel_ terrible.”

Roman giggles to himself, a sound pulled from his lips that he couldn’t stop. Dean cracks a grin, too, at that, and it falls quiet once more.

That is, at least, until there’s a knock on Roman’s door.

“Roman, are you alright? I heard a bump.”

With a snap of his head, Dean’s sobered up, any semblance of a smile gone and replaced with a familiar wide-eyed stare. Like someone was about to burst into the room and attack him. Roman regards Dean worryingly before calling back through the door, “Yeah, just fell out of bed. Morning, Ma.”

“Oh, alright. Are you both awake, and decent?”

“ _Ma_! Yes!” Heat creeps up his neck, and he tries to subtly cover up his embarrassment with a grumpy scowl as his mother walks in, work shirt buttoned and one of the temples of her glasses between her lips. She looks to be in a hurry, which is a little concerning considering she does a good amount of work at home while he’s at school. “Is ... everything okay?”

“Work emergency,” she says simply, before fixing the two with a pointed look that makes Roman look at Dean and then down at himself curiously; he didn’t sleep with a lot of clothes on normally, but he’d opted for actual pajama pants this time, still shirtless. Dean was wearing his shirt from the day before, some thin and aged thing, and his jeans which were unbuttoned and unzipped. The blush he’d been staving off all morning rushes forward with a vengeance and he ducks his head, not unseen by his mother. “Don’t be surprised if you eat supper alone tonight, Roman.”

Sagging slightly, Roman nods his head. The nights where he has to eat alone are few and in-between, to the point where he’s used to being alone, even if it’s not his preference. He tried not to let his disappointment show. “Okay.”

From the corner of his eye, he can see Dean looking at him, with the same unreadable expression as there had been back when he’d fumbled at practice.

_He probably thinks you’re pathetic._ His mind helpfully remarks. His confidence wavers.

As his mother walks away, he picks up the blanket that had fallen with them off the bed, throwing it haphazardly before turning around to face Dean. His expression is pretty sympathetic, actually, before he looks down as he buttons up his jeans once more. This strange silence falls over them, like they’re waiting for the other to speak, and Roman almost does, but ...

“Ya spend a lotta nights alone, don’tcha.”

Something in the way he says it makes Roman want to say that he doesn’t, as if it’s a lie, but it really isn’t; every couple of months, Pop goes away for a couple weeks – usually at the end of football – for a conference, this time in Los Angeles, California. He wasn’t a stranger to the kind of loneliness left behind by his father in those times, but it got much more compact, a little more painful, when his mother was gone, too. Never for as long as Pop, unless they went away together, which was rare of itself. She was usually gone for a whole day rather than weeks, but it didn’t change anything.

Mr. Perfect was _actually_ Mr. Lonely most days.

“Not a lot,” Roman says quietly.

“Enough, though.”

What would the point of lying even be, at this point? And to someone he’d called his brother? “...yeah. But duty calls.”

Narrowing his eyes at that, Dean keeps looking at him, but doesn’t speak again. Roman almost wishes he had, because his breath feels like it’s clawing its way up his throat as he sighs out.

_Duty calls._

* * *

It’s this strange phenomenon that happens whenever something changes, explicitly trying not to bring up whatever went on, between Dean and Roman. And after a week of forced nonchalance on Roman’s part and Dean’s schedule never quite seeming to sync up with his own, they never really have the opportunity to call the other out on it.

People around them are getting pretty pissy about it, though; Jey had asked Roman if he was good, which he said he was, “ _Of course I am_ ”, while Jimmy was still trying to make sure he was going to come to the party that weekend. It was honestly hard to believe that so much time had gone by, and Roman didn’t even notice.

Pop was still in California, while Mom was stuck in her office at home most of the time. She came out to eat with Roman, of course, and had told Roman to invite Dean over for the weekend. Of course, he hadn’t really had the opportunity to yet, having not _seen_ Dean, but he told his mother he would.

She really liked Dean, it seemed. Which was good, because so did he. The more they hung out, or even just talked, the more he realized he’d made a good call giving him a chance when, not all that long ago, he had only known the guy to be an annoying prick.

First impressions were wrong sometimes, and he was glad that one of those times was this one.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things are going to finally look back up. starting with this, which is one of those chapters i enjoyed reading through again while i was editing. let me know what y'all think! 
> 
> (i'm becoming more and more productive, which is half-coping mechanism and half-my muse hasn't abandoned me yet, as it's oft to do when i get deep into a fic. we're about halfway done ... withthefirstpart. c:' )

“So, there’s definitely somethin’ I’m curious about.”

Not looking up from the instructional packet for his upcoming English paper, Roman hums an affirmative at Dean to let him know he’d heard him. The two of them are sitting on the bleachers overlooking the football field, waiting for Roman’s practice to start; Mr. Regal had met with Roman on Thursday morning to let him know that his after-school detention was served, and he could go back to his regularly-scheduled afternoons. Of course, it figured that football was almost over, because as soon as it was, he’d be finding a job.

So much for a social life ... not that he had one much now.

“You have football practice every day, right?”

“Right,” Roman flips through a few pages of the packet so he can glance over them – this paper was going to be hell, he was sure of it. “For a couple hours.”

Dean’s fingers start tapping a rhythm on the bleachers, providing Roman the perfect soundtrack for reading over the packet. “And every week, you got a game.”

“Yep. Last one’s in a handful of weeks. You’re coming, right?” Roman looks up, unable to keep the hopeful look off his face. At Dean’s enthusiastic nod, he calms, grins and Dean does the same.

“And I’m assumin’ you have like, tons of homework and shit, too.”

Roman tilts his head to the side, actually does, just a little bit. “What’s this about?”

At the question, Dean shrugs, stops his tapping to lean back on the bench behind him. “Nothin’, just – when do you get to do what _you_ wanna do? Go out with friends or whatever?”

It’s not a _bad_ question, but it still draws this short, sharp laugh out of Roman as if it was obvious. Dean finds no humor in it, so Roman decides to do the humoring himself. “Well first of all, football’s a big part of my life right now, so I have to wait ‘til the season’s over first.” He says it like it’s just the way it is, and it is, but Dean doesn’t look to be buying it. “If I’m looking to go pro one day, I have to put serious time into it.”

“Yeah. In _college_.” Roman rolls his eyes at that – he just ... didn’t understand.

“And anyway,” Roman continues, “if I want to get into a decent college, I gotta work hard, so after this season’s over you’re probably gonna see less of me because I’ll hopefully have a job.”

It looks like there’s something on the tip of Dean’s tongue, that he wants to say, and Roman’s heard it all before from people who meant less to him: “ _Couldn’t you just use your dad’s money?_ ” “ _Aren’t you filthy rich?_ ” - and no, he wasn’t rich at all. His parents made plenty of funds between them for him and his siblings to have had everything he could have ever wanted, but he had learned through association that he would not accept being handed anything. He’d earn his way honestly.

Surely, Dean didn’t think that about him, too.

All Dean says is, “Oh.”

There must be something especially interesting about Dean’s sneakers, because he’s just looking at them now – pouting is a better word for it – and it’s times like these and many others like it that Roman wishes he could read his friend’s mind. He was equal parts complicated as he was pretty simple, but he always closed himself off after a while, and it drove Roman a little insane.

But Roman’s ‘ _don’t push, urge_ ’ mentality has been working. So far, anyway.

“So ... hey,” Roman says, turning slightly to regard Dean fully. He doesn’t give him the same courtesy, though Roman can see Dean’s eyes flick slightly over at his legs before staring back at the ground. “My cousins invited us to their party. Wanna come?”

“What?” The way Dean perks his head up is reminiscent of a dog, and Roman grins far too quickly. He can practically see his tail wagging.

“You heard me. Party. You can spend next Friday night over my place and we can head to my cousins' Saturday afternoon."

Dean’s expression is unreadable for a beat – maybe two, maybe a hundred – before he smiles. It’s small, kind of shy, but it’s a smile. “Someone’s gotta make sure you lighten up, yeah? Have a li’l fun?” He blinks, like he’d just realized something, before he goes back to leaning back on the seat behind him, comfortable, and says in a snarky tone, “Fun is when ya get to do somethin’ you enjoy, or take pleasure in-”

“I know what it is, smartass.”

For the first time, Dean smiles so wide that Roman swears he sees dimples; he’d never seen them before, he doesn’t think, but he adds it to an ever-growing list of things he digs about Dean, right up there with his snarky sense of humor and his smile. Reaching over, Roman musses up his hair, warmed by the sun, looking a little golden when strands of it slip between his fingers...

...he can hear the laughter of the team coming up behind him, a couple of guys at a time from the locker room, and he looks behind him to confirm that Mojo and a couple other guys were leading the charge. Mustering a sigh, he looks back at Dean, who is looking over his shoulder as well. “Duty calls. Gonna stick around?”

“Got nowhere else t’go.” Shrug. Casual. Makes Roman’s shoulders sink a little, but he stands up anyway to cover it up.

“You’re coming back with me, right?”

“Refer to last comment.” Another shrug. That one hurts Roman more than the last one.

They share a mutual grin, before Roman holds out a fist for him to bump. Dean flinches first, but knocks his fist back, getting comfortable on the bleachers once again.

* * *

“Bro, I have never _seen_ you play so good!”

Roman turns around as Mojo bounds into the locker room, his hand halfway at his gym locker’s handle; he had recorded the most tackles he’d ever made tonight, much to the excitement of the crowd, which tonight included his mother and Dean sitting front and center. When he made the tackle against the Gators’ greatest rival’s best defense man, he could have sworn he heard Dean screaming.

Just remembering that brings a grin to his face as he grabs his gym bag and starts stuffing his things into it.

“Got a good team behind me,” Roman almost had forgotten to respond, though he feels good about what he says, because it isn’t a lie . That makes Mojo smile back, knocking a fist against his arm.

“Ankle good?”

“Yeah. It will be,” as if on cue, there was a slight throb that made him hiss as he experimentally rolled it. It’s becoming a nagging concern lately, his ankle, sometimes leaving him with a limp if he did too much weight training on his feet. He’d have to look into righting that without letting on that it was bothersome. Sighing softly, he rubs his hand over his short hair. “The weekend couldn’t have come soon enough.”

“Agreed. Hey, you’re coming to your cousin’s party next weekend?”

Of course Mojo was. “I’m gonna try, yeah. Depends on if Pop comes back on time or sooner.”

“Oh, where’s Mr. Reigns this time?”

For some reason, Roman finds himself feeling ... some sort of way. A little disappointed, maybe. But Mojo didn’t mean anything by the question, was one of the guys on the team Roman genuinely could call a friend, and was only curious. Mustering his best look of nonchalance – _duty calls_ – he shrugs. “Los Angeles. Expecting him next weekend, but he usually comes home early.”

“Oh.” Mojo nods. “Well, you bringing a date, Big Dog?”

Roman hadn’t ever really considered the fact that he might be bringing Dean as his date, but it’s a thing he’d easily overlooked as, for the last couple months, the last thing he’d ever thought about was a date with anybody. Too much going on, inside his head and outside, and he just never ... really considered having a social life or any extension of one. Still, he mulls over it, lets the question swish around his brain like mouthwash, before he shrugs his shoulders.

“Nah, not a date – I’m bringing Ambrose, though.”

“Ambrose?” Mojo shifts from on foot to the other. “Like, Dean Ambrose?”

It had never occured to Roman that – _someone like_ – Dean would even be a person that Mojo knew, but memories of his conversation with his cousins came flooding back, the ‘rumors’ that circulated, and he feels himself jump-start, as if to block a blow from somewhere. “Yeah, that’s him. You know, he’s pretty cool once ya get to know ‘em-”

“Oh, I know, he’s hilarious,” Mojo agrees, which surprises Roman. A little bit. “He’s in my English class – dude’s hella ... _imaginative_ when it comes to class discussions. His imagination’s wild.”

Roman feels his features soften. “Yeah. Well, he’s my plus-one for the party.”

From out of seemingly nowhere, another one of his other teammates he didn’t know the name of comes up behind him to go to their own locker, shuffling around in it. “The dude’s funny and all, but did you see what he did to Baron Corbin? His own _brother_? The guy’s a psycho, probably gets off on causing trouble.”

“He’s not a psycho,” Roman’s voice drops low, which makes the other guy and Mojo alike visibly freeze. His voice was already a smooth bass, but it had a tendency to dip low when he was pissed off. Much like now. “Don’t call him that.”

“Easy there, Big Dog,” Mojo, though he’s not about to make an effort to stop him if Roman were to make a move. “Let’s not have a locker-room brawl, okay? Don’t wanna get in trouble again with Coach.”

Apparently, Roman’s anger had silenced the other guy, but he finds his voice amidst Mojo’s placating. “Yeah, yeah! ...hey, now that I think about it, wasn’t it Ambrose’s fault you got detention, too? Guy seems to attract trouble everywhere.”

That drags a growl out of Roman. “Cut it out before I make you.”

“Come on...” Mojo’s attempts were feeble at this point, it seemed, but he was still trying. “Dude c’mon, don’t push his buttons. Stop talkin’ about Ambr-- about Dean, okay?”

Somewhere between the other guy’s antagonizing and Roman’s warning, Mojo had put his hand on Roman’s chest, keeping them separated; he wasn’t even sure he’d moved, but maybe he had, because the other guy looks a little too much in his space than he had a second ago. Mojo was no slouch, was built a little stockier than Roman, so he could easily hold him back, even with just a hand, but it seemed that wasn’t the point of the contact.

“Baron tells me everything,” guy says. “He tells me all the dark little secrets about Ambrose that’d make you change your mind, Reigns.”

“Shut. Up. You don’t know him.”

“Neither do you. I’m telling you, the guy’s off.”

The door to the locker room opens behind them, but Roman doesn’t turn around. Mojo does, his fingers twitching across Roman’s chest. Roman knocks them away.

“What’s off to _you_ is just right to _me_.”

Picking up his gym bag, Roman spins around to exit the locker room, nearly bumping into a surprised Dean, when he pauses. (Not that he can see it, but Mojo has a big grin on his face.) Dean gives him this look, unreadable, wrapped in shock and other emotions he couldn’t quite put a name to, before he places a hand on Dean’s head to turn him around.

“Let’s go, D.”

Dean’s still stuck in his state of shock, but he at least has the good-enough sense to follow where Roman pushes him.


	14. Chapter 14

Something had changed in Roman after he had met Dean Ambrose. He had fought against it for a long time, tried to pretend that the latter had had no part in what had so-obviously been happening lately – how he had started to play better, how his head wasn’t quite so filled with the obsessed fog of impressing people. But the more he thought about it all, the more he realized that, as much as he’d have loved to say it was his doing, he was more than willing to share the credit with Dean.

For right now, Dean was spending his afternoons with Roman; they’d start at football practice, then go back to Roman’s house, where Roman would shower and eat and do his homework, all while Dean would sit nearby, go on the computer, watch TV. Being in each other’s company was doing more help than harm – for Dean, for Roman.

Dean hadn’t wanted to go back to his place for a few days, but once he felt good enough, they had reached an agreement: if something ever happened and Dean tried to run away again, he should just come to Roman’s. He should call him to pick him up, or hell, just fucking come over. But, it seemed, having a place for Dean to go to when things got bad had put him at ease somewhat. It certainly did Roman.

It occurs to Roman, actually, on a particularly cloudy morning that things had never really felt ‘normal’ until he’d met Dean – sure, the kid he had known months before had seemed obnoxious, sleazy, kind of a weirdo, but it was nothing compared to the kid he knew now. ...oh, sure, Dean was still all of these things, in actuality, but those were hardly words Roman used to describe him now.

“ _Dean’s_ _more than what’s on the surface,_ ” He had once described to someone recently. Couldn’t for the life of him remember who – some other person on the football team. “ _But h_ _e’s an acquired taste, for sure._ ”

But then, so was he, he remembered thinking.

_That’s why we just ... work._

* * *

With Roman’s last football game approaching, he had taken to stopping at places after practice to start collecting applications; ideally, he wanted to work at either IHOP – which he stopped at occasionally, could drive between school and there and home fairly easily – or anywhere else that wasn’t retail. His people skills were decent enough, but his temper could flare easily with football almost out of the picture. Food was the safest choice.

However, things were going a little harder in the job-hunting department – nowhere was really hiring right now, and although he didn’t _need_ a job, he wanted one, wanted to have money to spend.

Accompanying him on his hunt was Jimmy, who was trying to tell Roman that working at the mall – in retail – wasn’t that horrible when his boss was so fun, and Dean, who wasn’t so much in it for a job as he was moral support. He’d brought some money along, but hadn’t really gotten anything yet, was waiting or so Roman assumed. But the hunt wasn’t going well, even with the occasional text from Jey, who _was_ in fact working at GameStop at Cordova Mall _._

“Come on, _uce._ ” Jimmy glanced at Roman, who was becoming more and more disheartened. “Let’s just go to Cordova, see if they got anything. It ain’t that far.”

It wasn’t, and Roman begrudgingly made the drive there, Jimmy sitting shotgun and Dean in the back. The three were listening to Jimmy’s phone, which was plugged into the car, with a mix of Polynesian music and Rock playing back at them. Roman sang the few Polynesian folk songs he could, deciding to focus more on the road, and occasionally found Dean’s eyes watching him with this far-away look. Once Roman looked at him, though, he looked away, down, out the window. Somewhere else.

Huh. That was weird.

Once they made it to the Mall, Roman heaved a sigh before the three traversed the huge building. Anywhere that looked interesting to him – mostly places like Foot Locker, Old Navy, FYE – he went in to get an application. It wasn’t until he felt a hand on his arm to stop him that he made a decision.

“Yo, _uce._ Dean’s walked off.”

Three dreaded words, but he didn’t have to look very far for him. The three had walked themselves all over the mall, ending up on the Dillard’s side of things, having steered Jimmy away from Victoria’s Secret and Dean from Hot Topic – he liked looking at the room with the black light and the posters, but Roman just wanted to do what he came here to do and go at this point.

Roman walked a little faster than Jimmy when they found him standing outside the Men’s Warehouse, and even if he didn’t really have the need to, Roman looked him up and down to make sure he was fine before he followed his eyes into the store; there was a tall male mannequin near the front of the store, showing off a nice black leather jacket, like a clean and un-worn version of the one he had now. If he had the ability, he might have been giving it heart-eyes.

“That’s really nice,” Jimmy said. “Want to go inside?”

Dean looked at Roman, then shook his head. “Nah.”

“Well, I am,” Roman said, no room for discussion. “This is one of the last places with a Help Wanted sign.” Starting to walk through the large threshold, he turns around and flashes a little grin toward Dean. “Why don’t y’all go to Hot Topic and Victoria’s Secret while I’m in here? I’ll meet up with you.”

Jimmy has this biggest smirk on his face, like he’d just heard the greatest dirty joke on the Earth. Dean looked okay with it too. The two turned away and walked off, Jimmy engaging in most of the conversation – probably telling Dean that dirty joke he’d most-certainly thought of, the hooligan – before Roman turns around.

His fingers graze over the jacket as he walks past, and he finds a price tag, and feels his stomach bottom out; he can’t afford this without a job, and that’s really all the incentive he could ever need. Retail, for Dean?

“Hi, I’d like an application, please?”

One and done.

* * *

The first store on his way out of the shop was Victoria’s Secret, and he wasn’t the least bit surprised to see Jimmy looking at some sale on lingerie; he and his girlfriend Naomi had been together for a couple years, and although he was by no means some sexual deviant, she did like her fair-share of nice underwear. And Jimmy was nothing but a supportive and indulgent boyfriend.

“Whadya think, _uce_ ,” Jimmy turned to Roman as he turned into the store. The tips of his ears were growing warmer and warmer the further he got from the exit. “I want to get Nay somethin’ exciting for Christmas.” He held up some black, strappy thing for bottoms and a lacy bra. “I know this ain’t your thing, but Jey is sick of helpin’ me, man.”

“Well, ignoring the fact that the only woman I’ve ever bought for is my mother,” with a pointed glare, Roman put his hands on his hips. “I guess that looks fine. I don’t really know what styles she’s into, idiot.”

Jimmy deflates. “Yeah. Maybe her and I will just come and I’ll let ‘er pick something out.”

Roman makes a face, but hides it by dragging his hand down his face. “Maybe. Come on, let’s go find the other one.”

* * *

The other one, in no lesser terms, was flirting with the cashier at Hot Topic.

When Roman walked up to the entrance, Dean was leaning over the counter, his right hip facing the threshold, a wicked smirk on his face as he said something quietly to the cashier. All he could see of the cashier was blond, but he didn’t have to see more as he heard a familiar laugh over the heavy rock music playing in the store. Grinning a little to himself, he strode right in, with Jimmy seeking refuge on the bench outside and pulling his phone out.

Neither Dean nor the cashier saw Roman walk in, but when he leaned beside Dean and intentionally bumped his elbow against the other’s, they both looked at him, Dean’s smirk easing into a grin.

“Hey Dean.” Turning to the cashier, Roman smiles. “Hi, Seth.”

“Roman!” Seth, hair pulled into a messy bun, stood a little straighter. “Hi! What are you doing here?”

“Job hunting,” Roman shrugged. “Hope I wasn’t interrupting. I just thought I’d say hi. I didn’t know you worked here.”

Seth laughed – that nasally sound, like Waluigi – and distracted himself with straightening up the counterspace where Dean had been fiddling with everything on it. “Are you kidding? Everyone from school works here, pretty much. Where you gonna work?”

“Men’s Warehouse? I’m hoping – my first plan was IHOP, but well-”

“Lemme guess.” Seth raised an eyebrow, his voice taking this trill that it usually took right before he- “For the discounted food, right?”

– Theeeeere it was.

It wasn’t like Roman had a problem with his weight – he was mostly muscle, was still pretty thin and had some definition, but he did like food. But as he does with a lot of stuff people say – Seth wasn’t being harmful ... not really, or at least he hoped – he laughs it off, flashing a grin. “You caught me. Unfortunately, they weren’t hiring. Lot’a places here are, though.”

“You should’ve picked up an application here. Tryin’ to get Deano here to.”

_Deano_.

Dean shrugs. “This ain’t my scene – though, I do like the posters.”

“Of course you do.” Seth teases.

Roman just grins at him. “Did ya see any cool ones?”

Dean looks at him, shrugs, but his eyes are sparkling and blue like the ocean, and just as deep and mysterious. “Hadn’t gotten a chance to look yet. Come with me?”

Something in Roman’s guts is doing backflips at the invitation – _Seth was right there, he and Dean were just flirting, but here he is inviting you –_ and he nods. “Sure. Later, Seth.” He barely has time to wave before he is dragged through the store and through the curtain, where a black light is shining on a bunch of neon posters. They give Roman a headache if he’s not constantly moving his eyes, but Dean can’t stop looking at them like they’re his favorite TV show.

“There was a Mall in Cincy that had a smaller selection of posters,” he says, out of the blue. Roman looks at him, which is a huge relief for his eyes. “Always wanted to get a black light and a poster or two.”

“Cincinnati?”

Dean looks at him, like he’s surprised he’d heard him. Then he looks to the ground, talking softer. “I’m from there. I moved here ‘cause Mom didn’t want me livin’ in the conditions we were in.”

“That’s good you got out, then, right?”

It looks like he’s about to shrivel up, the way Dean’s shoulders tense and his hands tighten on the little railing put up to keep people away from the posters. Roman moves to wrap his arm around his back, and he can’t remember what he’d done that for, to offer comfort or move him out of the room. It’s taken for the latter, and Dean kind of sinks into it for a second before scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“I think that’s where I was gonna go before. Back to Cincinnati. The situation was shitty, but my grandpa lives in a nicer part than I did. I haven’t seen him in years.”

“You will.” Roman rubs a path up and down Dean’s back, watching his features soften and the blue of his eyes warm. “You still wanna go back?”

“No.” A pause. “Yes. I dunno.” A deep breath. Dean’s fingers slip from the railing one by one, like he’s lost his grip. “The jacket I’m wearin’? It’s Gramps’. He gave it to me when I was younger, said I’d grow into it.”

Roman stops rubbing and lets his fingers just rest over the leather jacket. “It’s nice. Looks good on you.”

The smile on Dean’s face isn't anything like his usual casual grin or snarky smirk. It puts the bright neon to shame. Almost hurts Roman’s eyes just as much, and he puts his arm over Dean’s shoulders to lead him out of the small room. “Come on, li’l _uce._ Time to head back.”

“Yeah.”


	15. Chapter 15

It was a terrible day for rain.

At first, Roman hadn’t thought so; things had been relatively normal for a Monday morning, albeit his ankle had been particularly sore and he’d wrapped it up with an Ace bandage to keep it compressed. Other than that, the morning had gone on without incident.

He hitches a ride with Jimmy and Jey, and they enthusiastically agree. It’s not like he wants to make his ankle worse by driving with it, and besides, he knows they want to talk about their party this weekend. In fact, that’s most of the conversation in the car, Jimmy enthusiastically saying that he was going to order about ten pizzas to accommodate everyone who was coming.

“I thought it was a small party?” Roman had asked, curled up in the twins’ little car.

“Who said it wasn’t?” Jimmy said with this look of innocence that seemed to always be misconstrued as the opposite.

“Don’t you think ten is a bit much?”

“Let’s see,” Jey turns to look at Roman – despite him being the largest of the three, it was the twins’ shared vehicle, and he wasn’t the complaining type anyway – and starts counting on his fingers. “There’s us, you and Dean, Mojo – oh, I got in touch with Xavier, he’s gonna bring E and Kofi – and I think that’s it.”

Roman actually scoffs. “So, three football players, four trackies, and Dean. All teenage boys. Eight teenage boys and _ten_ pizzas?”

“You think we’re made’a money, _uce_?” Jimmy says from the driver’s seat.

The three laugh, and Roman says, “I’ll stop and pick something else up before Dean and I come, how’s that?”

“Sounds good!”

* * *

Monday is boring, complete with a canceled practice and Coach’s announcement that a few scouts from a few different colleges will be attending the final game on Friday, which has Roman near-ecstatic; he was just that much closer, one more step, to seeing his dream realized. It felt surreal.

When Roman tried to find Dean in the hall that afternoon, he ends up running into Seth instead.

“You seen Dean anywhere?”

“He’s not here.” Seth looks like he wished that wasn’t true, like he was breaking some terrible news to Roman. Roman looks at him, chalks up the sudden hollowness of his stomach to nerves about the scouters, before he casts a wave.

Tuesday doesn’t fair any better, though for the second day in a row, Dean is absent. Second day in a row, too, that it’s raining, but that doesn’t surprise Roman – it was hurricane season, and with the strength of the wind changing practically overnight, he might wager that there might not be school tomorrow, for safety reasons – so he doesn’t think twice when he resolves to spend the afternoon in Pop’s workout room.

The days move about as fast as if someone was drawing an ‘X’ through them on a calendar, and before Roman knows it, it’s Friday, but all he feels is the wrong kind of nerves.

Because tonight, his future college might make up their mind about him. Tonight, he has to deal with the emotional toll that it being his final high school football game will take.

And, not only that, but Dean hadn’t been in school _all week_. Five _fucking_ days.

_Where are you, D?_

Roman’s last class was on the second floor, so he has to go down the stairs to get to his locker. As he gets on the ground and goes to take a step, he feels something tweak in his ankle and he has to stop, take a deep breath, because he can _not_ afford to miss this game. He will _not_ miss it.

...even if the pain is fucking white-hot.

He has to pretend that he isn’t fighting off the urge to scream out when he walks, and when he gets to his locker, he’s relieved that he can lean against the one beside him and take some pressure off; he doesn’t dare take off the ace bandage and see if it’s starting to swell, so he resolves to simply tighten the bandage, keep it compressed, use it as little as possible until the game.

The color that he can see starting to spread out over his foot is a little concerning, however. “Oh, _fuck_ me.”

After fixing the bandage, he drags a hand down his face; in his entire life, this is the biggest lie he has ever told, and as much as it isn’t weighing on him that heavily, he knows the consequences of this were going to be much bigger than a scolding, a grounding, or anything else his parents were going to conjure up, but when he hears the excited cheers of a couple of his teammates coming down the hallway, he grins and slips his foot back into his sneaker and closes his locker.

He’s sure everything was going to be fine.

* * *

The first quarter is Gator-strong, with the defense keeping the ball out of their end zone and the other team’s offense fumbling many a-pass, and while the other team is on the board first, it’s the last time they score until the last quarter. Roman’s ankle isn’t bad anymore, with the compression helping his ankle and the pain having faded before the game had started.

As the team gathers for a huddle, as he walks over, he has a chance to scan the crowd for familiar faces: Mom and Pop are sitting at the top of the bleachers, with Pop towering over everyone like some menacing skyscraper, and he doesn’t look unhappy. Mom is waving around an orange flag around with his number sewed into it. Makes him smile in the way only his Mom could. Sitting in the front are a couple of dudes he doesn’t recognize, mid-thirties looked like, wearing nice clothes and whispering to each other, and he feels his heart patter hard in his chest before he leans into the huddle.

“Okay, boys,” Coach’s eyes are big, happy, and Roman can’t help but look at him in the same way. Those were the scouts that Coach had been talking about. They’re going to see his team win. They’re going to see _him_. “All we need to do is do exactly what we’ve been doing all year. Reigns, need you to channel that speed, pump your legs, but other than that – seniors, enjoy your last game, have fun, and we’ll kick their ass.” Roman nods, shifts from one foot to the other, before Coach puts his hand in the middle. “Alright boys, on three--”

To a chorus of _Break!_ the team goes out onto the field, gets down into position, and Mojo looks at Roman, bright-eyed and pink-faced. “Big Dog, you ready to kick ass and take name?”

A grunt in affirmation, a nod, and Roman knocks his hand against Mojo’s shoulder. “Just don’t get in my way – gonna hand out _all_ the spears tonight!”

The fourth quarter starts and Roman does as he promised, and at the halfway mark, he’s already made more than enough tackles to impress the scouts. There’s a moment when he scans the crowd, locks eyes with one, and he’s nodding – Yes. Witness me. - and he suddenly feels this swell of unadulterated bliss as he settles in and gets ready to continue the game at the yard line.

“Hike!”

* * *

_Five minutes left._

It’s a tie game, somehow, with their opponent making them chase their metaphorical tails for the first ten minutes. To make matters worse, the team is exhausted, the chasing having extended from metaphor to literal, and Roman is no exception; his lungs are on fire, legs like jelly, and to make it worse ... his ankle – there was no pussyfooting around it, no pun intended – fucking _hurt_.

If he went as hard as he had been all night, he was sure to break something. But, there were _five minutes._

He didn’t know what to do.

_Three minutes left._

His ankle has this deep throb in it, one that has this wave of panic eating away at his stomach, his lungs, his heart, and suddenly he’s grateful that the game is almost over.

Mojo is keeping everyone focused, reminding them that they have 3-minutes to come back, and most of the guys are in agreement. Roman looks over at Coach, whose head is in his hands, muttering to himself, and he looks down at the ground. His eyes flick to his ankle – he has maybe one good sprint in him before his foot gives way – before he looks at Mojo.

“What is it, Big Dog?” Pants Mojo.

“Let’s ... let’s have a little fun. Just follow my lead.”

_Thirty seconds left._

“Hike!”

Once the quarterback gets the ball, Roman starts moving in a trot, letting the other defensemen keep the offense away – Roman’s a defensive tackle, so no one is expecting him to make an offensive play, not to mention if he’s only got one more burst in him, he wants to make it count. Everyone is running toward the person with the ball in possession, and although there are eyes on him, it’s as easy as staying in their line of sight.

Give them no reason to charge.

The ball moves from one person to another, keeping the possession far enough away that players are starting to crowd around everyone else. Roman grins, until someone breaks apart from the crowd and gets in Roman’s face.

“I know what you’re doing,” he says, voice low and gravelly, and Roman smirks.

“What?” he says, “Just having a little ... fun!”

The ball is thrown to Mojo, who suddenly has a burst of speed, heading toward the end zone. The guy from before looks shocked, runs at Mojo – they won’t catch him, they never catch him – and suddenly he’s wide-open.

_Ten seconds left._

“Big Dog!”

Roman looks up at the sound of his nickname, and suddenly, it’s like he’s got a spotlight right on him; the football itself is incoming, and he opens his arms to get it in his custody, already getting ready to sprint toward the end zone a small ways away. Everyone’s realizing they’ve been tricked – hoodwinked – bamboozled – and they turn to correct their error.

The football’s in his arms. He starts sprinting, and he suddenly feels something like glee as the end zone is seconds away ...

... red and white lights flash in his peripheral, and a siren accompanies it, and for a split second he doesn’t realize it. He idly notices it drive past – he’s right at the end zone’s line – and watches the ambulance turn, and suddenly it’s like he’s been doused with ice-water.

It just turned down the road where Dean’s house is.

_Dean_ ...

He moves to turn, to watch, praying to God that he’s wrong, that it’s adrenaline ...

_Dean!_

... he feels his foot give way, a sharp, intense pain accompanying it at the same time as a hard body crashing into him.

_DEAN!_

He hits the ground. Hard. Curls around the football because this game is _riding_ on him holding onto this fucking ball--

_BZZZZZZZZZ!_

\--the buzzer, the signal for the end of the game, cuts through the air like a hot knife through butter, and he hugs the _fucking_ ball as he goes down.

The referee holds up his hands - “TOUCHDOWN!” - and Roman stays down, can’t get up because he knows, he _knows_ , that he can’t stand. _Knows_ that that _fucking_ ambulance is going where he _knows_ he doesn’t want it to fucking go.

_DEAN DEAN DEAN_ his mind is chanting, yelling, _screaming_ and it’s just about the only ultimatum he has to move at all. _GET UP GET UP, DEAN DEAN DEAN_.

In a flash, the team is around him, Mojo being the strength to lift him up. The ball falls from his hands – he practically throws it to get rid of it, to hang onto Mojo for support – and he hops. Mojo catches on, throwing Roman’s arm around his shoulders and walking him toward the team where congratulations are in order.

He clutches Mojo, tries to walk, but his whole leg gives and he nearly collapses.

“Whoa, Rome, you gotta– wait, don’t– Coach!”

It’s a blur. Everything after his game-winning goal is a blur, and he has no idea what happens between falling and getting to his parents. Everyone’s cheering him on, screaming their school chant and shouting his number into the skies, but the siren is the only sound in his ears. He’s deaf to everything else.

“Roman, your foot!”

_DEAN DEAN DEAN--_

Someone calls his name, and suddenly, he’s sick of hearing it. He balls up his hands and pushes away from Mojo, prepares to run, takes a step ... and collapses. He falls onto his knee, and he swears so loud he _swears_ his relatives across the country will call him later to complain about it. His hand shakes, hovers over his foot and he’s tearing off his shoe, unwrapping his ankle, and it’s all dark, swollen, and he wants to scream and cry and throw something and draw something in and--

“Roman, we need to bring you to-”

“Dean, I have to get to-”

“Honey, please,” that’s Mom, and he feels her hand over his arm, and he twitches before letting her get him up. He leans on her, not too heavily because he knows she can’t take his full weight, before Pop comes up and gets his arm around his shoulders to get him off of it.

“Ma, the ambulance ... it went to Dean’s house, he’s in trouble.”

Mom looks at Pop, he can feel her head move over his other arm, and he lets out this ... choked sound.

“Your foot needs to be looked at, baby--”

“But _Dean-_ ”

“ _Leati_.” Pop. “Mind your mother.”

Tears burn his eyes.

_Guy seems to attract trouble ... dark little secrets ..._

Pop has to pick him up, arms wrapped around his body and hold on tight as he struggled against it, and he looks over as they make it to the parking lot as the ambulance gets back onto the main road, lights on, siren blaring at cars in front of it.

It’s on it’s way to the hospital.

With a resigned sigh – it hurts to breathe a little, a lot, all of a sudden – before he pushes against Pops’ hands.

“I got it. I’ll go. Let’s just hurry up.”

_Dean..._

...he just hopes that he’s not too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .............. sorry.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit happens, dudes. this chapter's a few days late (not that i have a set schedule or anything) but thanks for the patience. keep that patience rolling as we get back into it.

Sitting in the hospital waiting room is equal parts _get me outta here_ and _hurry up and look at me already_ as Roman sits on the comfortable couch by the window, his ankle elevated on his jersey on another chair; in the car, his mother had passed him his clothes he’d worn that day from his gym bag, to change into from his gear, but Roman couldn’t keep himself focused on the task at hand as he kept his eyes zeroed-in on the back of the ambulance a few cars ahead of them. He did get as far as putting some deodorant on after wiping his naked torso and underarms with a towel, but that was just about it until they had gotten to the hospital.

He had gotten as far as putting on his plain tee shirt before his ankle shot this electric pain up his leg when he bumped it, and he grit his teeth with a pained noise. He was stupid, so fucking stupid, and his pride was going to be the death of him; the mantra in his head had switched from _DEAN_ to _fucking idiot_ real fast, especially when he realized that if he had just _said_ something about his ankle, he might have saved himself the trouble—could have run after the ambulance no problem, been there for Dean.

Guilt sits heavy on his shoulders while he sits there, quiet, arms crossed over himself in a very Dean-like fashion.

“How’s your foot, baby?” Mom is sitting beside him, having just gotten back from talking to the receptionist at the front desk. Her eyes are soft, a mother’s comfort, and he looks at her and swallows.

“Hurts.” _Fucking idiot._

“How did this happen?”

_Just rip it off like a band-aid_ , Roman thinks to himself. “Fumbled at practice.” _Say it, idiot._ “-like, few weeks ago?”

Mom chews on that, because if anyone knows how stubborn he is, it’s her, but Pop is towering over him in a second. “And the reason you didn’t say anything before was...?”

“It wasn’t anything serious. I hadn’t been paying attention.” Suddenly, Roman feels like he was pushed into a corner by a lion, and he’s never been good in that position. He shrinks slightly, but refuses to back down. “It was a thing that came and went, but tonight I guess it _really_ went...”

Pop looks like he wants to scream, but as he always does, he merely lets out the breath he’d been holding and crosses his arms, looking utterly disappointed. Mom sighs. “Roman, this is something you have to tell us immediately. Could have saved you a lot of trouble.”

“I know.” _Now you’re sitting here, pissed off Pop, upset Mom, and Dean is somewhere in this hospital in who-knows what condition. Fucking idiot._ “I’ve learned my lesson, trust me. Now if you excuse me I have to ask-” he starts to get up, but Mom’s hand on his arm gives him pause.

“I really think you should stay here,” Mom says. She doesn’t ever force him to do anything, that was never her style, but she is firm when she says it. It has the same effect as Pop getting in his face, though he feels less powerless. He sighs, unhappy about this, but relents. “Whatever it is, we’ll ask the doctor later.”

Roman won’t go against his mother – never has – _mama’s boy_ – so he gives in, but not without a scowl aimed somewhere near his feet before he clears his throat. “I’m gonna get some water then.” When Mom hums, he slowly gets up and uses chairs to keep his balance as he hops over to the water cooler. He can vaguely recall, one second, brushing his fingers against a couple empty chairs as he walked past, and the next, them being thrown down. His anger is climbing up his spine like a snake coiling around him, but with no outlet – someone to tackle, a place to run and move – he’s got no alternative to succumbing anymore.

His father’s shocked face is sobering enough after the trigger’s been pulled. He’s suddenly parched as he makes it to the cooler, grabs a paper cup, and fills it.

This fucking _blows_.

* * *

It was late by the time the x-rays for Roman’s ankle came back, and between himself and Mom and Pop, he was – understandably – the most angry with himself; there was no break, but the x-ray showed that he had suffered a moderate – thankfully not career-ending – sprain in his right ankle. Of course, he was just as upset to learn that he needed to be on his feet as little as possible, but seeing as the season was over and that was one less anxiety to worry about, he at least wouldn’t have a fitful sleep tonight over _that._

He did have a follow-up appointment with his doctor in a couple weeks, but that wasn’t so bad. He didn’t really take sick days in school much, so he’d might as well take this as a blessing in disguise to get some rest and heal.

The couch was as good a spot to take up for tonight as any, and he didn’t really want to combat the stairs on one foot; it was a plush sectional, with one end a lounge chair for him to stretch out on, and with the Playstation hooked up to the big-screen in the living room, he could enjoy a game of Call of Duty before he succumbed to sleep.

He’d barely gotten his headset over his head when he got the invite to join a game by ‘uceyjucey’.

Jey.

He accepts and, while he waits in the lobby, he turns on his headset.

“What’s up, cos?”

“ _Yo, Rome, heard there was some commotion at the game tonight._ ”

Roman flinches, picks his class, before sitting up; his leg was elevated on a pillow, and the crutches that he’d been given were sitting stretched out on the couch beside him. “Yeah – I got the winning goal, but my foot kinda gave out on me.”

“ _Rough, uce. ‘least the season’s done, right? Now you can relax._ ”

“Something to that effect, hopefully. Gonna ready up?”

“ _Oh!_ ” The loading screen counts down to the start of the match. “ _So did you want to skip out on the party tomorrow?_ ”

“Damn. I actually completely forgot – I can’t drive.”

“ _If you and Dean still wanted to come, I could pick you up._ ”

Roman had zoned out as soon as Jey mentioned Dean – not that he’d forgotten about him, quite the opposite, and as much as he wanted to go to his cousin’s party, he wasn’t even sure what had happened yet.

The map loaded and Roman burst forward – cake walk, COD was his game – with the intent to take out the opposing team; he didn’t really offer commentary when it came to playing video games, unless there was someone in the room with him, so a great deal of the noise was Jey on the other side of the headset, yelling at the opposition for ‘ _shooting me dead_ ’. Occasionally, Roman would scoff or grumble something under his breath.

Felt good to feel a whole new kind of stimulation, and when the round ended and his and Jey’s team were victorious, he gave in to the day’s exhaustion once and for all.

“Dean’s in the hospital.”

“ _Holy shit – is he okay?_ ”

All of a sudden, Roman’s throat caught fire, and his eyes watered. “Don’t know. Didn’t get a chance to see ‘im. Have to wait ‘til tomorrow.”

“ _I’ll drive you._ ”

“Thanks.” Wiping at his eyes with thumb and middle finger, he shakes his head, as if shaking away whatever emotion had taken over in that second. Only for another, more red and dangerous, to take its place.

_If it’s what I think it is, someone’s fucking dead._

The next round was slower, but had the same outcome as the one previous. Roman got the highest number of kills, which didn’t surprise him anymore, and while they were in the lobby again, Jey told him he was going to tell Jimmy to get on, and Kofi and Xavier. This gave him a reprieve he didn’t ask for, so he excused himself to go to the bathroom.

Pretty uneventful affair, except when he looked in the mirror, his vision went distorted and hot tears slipped down his face. Not knowing the cause of it only managed to make it worse, and he leaned his hands on the sink, to stabilize himself, to hold something real, to stop himself from punching the mirror.

He wanted to see Dean. Or, at the very least, wanted to make sure he was okay, because this not-knowing was bullshit. The emotions in his gut were making him dizzy, less like butterflies and more like fighter jets, worry and anger and guilt making it hard to focus on anything else.

Worried about Dean.

Angry at his damn ankle.

Guilt that he would have thrown the entire fucking game to chase the ambulance had someone not tackled him and made him score.

Yeah. Something had definitely changed in Roman since he’d met Dean.

Because before, he would have _never_ put anyone before football.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dedicated to my grandfather. <3 rest easy, papa.]


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not that i ever have had a timeline for when chapters come out for this, but this is /so/ late. i've had absolutely /no/ muse for a month, which happens, but that on top of my personal shit? well, shit happens, and here we are. so, here! (don'tkillme?)

Normally, Roman’s awake on Saturday bright and early, either doing a strength workout or running on the treadmill, but he can’t help but think this ankle deal was a blessing in disguise when he realizes, biological clock already used to being up early, that Pop hasn’t come in to wake him for training. Granted, the downside was that his biological clock and his ankle are working together to remind him to take his morning pain pill, but that was neither here nor there.

Sitting up slightly on the couch, he blinks warily around the living room; sunlight was streaming in through a big, clean window, right over his waking body, and he winces against the brightness before grabbing the crutches beside him to stand. First, he has to go to the bathroom.

His face feels tight from his little emotional episode last night, but he isn’t any puffier this morning than a sleepy-Roman usually is, and he grabs a cloth from the cabinet under the sink – with some wobbling, because he is still learning to use the crutch as a tool of assistance – to wipe his face with. Stubble had begun to grow around his jaw, giving some shadows that seem almost perfectly placed to his face. Running his hand over it, he concludes we doesn’t hate it, but starts putting together things to shave with anyway.

Showering is something he doesn’t want to tackle right now, so he settles for wetting the cloth and dropping some soap onto it to wash the parts that need it and wipe down the spots that don’t. He realizes a bit too late that his room, where all his clothes are, is upstairs, and curses under his breath.

Now he has to go upstairs.

It’s difficult, and annoying, but he’s a stubborn jackass when it comes down to it, so he manages to only do it with minimal grunting and maximum concentration. Halfway up, he nearly trips, misjudging the distance of one step to the next when he looks up to gauge how many steps he has left. If it weren’t still early, he might have scolded himself aloud, so he settles for gritting his teeth instead.

By some sort of miracle, Roman makes it up the stairs, and hobbles his way across the hall until he gets to his bedroom; he’s pretty sure he only wants to make this trip once, so when he gets inside his room, he grabs the suitcase from his closet that he saves for vacations and grabs a bunch of clothes – tee shirts, track pants, shorts, underwear and a sweatshirt in case – before zipping it up. He leans his crutch on the side of his dresser, balancing on its top on one hand, while he fishes through his drawers to grab his clothes for today.

He’s halfway through securing the waistband of his shorts when he hears someone moving around in the hall.

“Morning,” he calls, and the footsteps stop for a beat. For some reason, when it’s Pop’s head that pops in with an uncommonly-hysterical look of surprise, Roman starts to giggle low in his throat.

“Did you get up here by yourself?”

God, it _kills_ Roman to not say something sarcastic, settling for an even deadpan, “Yes, Pop.”

“Hm.”

Pop disappears back out into the hall, causing Roman to pull a confused face, before he shakes his head. “How else would I have gotten up here.”

When he leaves his room, he balances on the crutches and kicks his suitcase with his good foot, watching it slide across the floor. It takes a couple more good kicks for it to make it to the stairs, and almost as soon as he makes it there, Mom’s coming too, and they share this look with each other before Mom just starts laughing to herself.

“You’re incredible sometimes.”

It takes all of Roman’s willpower not to, yet somehow, he ends up blushing anyway.

* * *

Jey pulls into the driveway earlier than 10 o’clock, but that’s okay, because Roman had been ready for an hour at that point; his cousin’s bouncing on his heels, decked in casual clothes, while Roman’s dressed in a neat baseball tee and jeans, complete with a neatly-kept goatee.

“Lookin’ sharp, _uce_ ,” Jey quips as Roman comes down the steps. He rushes over, just in case, but leaves him to get down on his own. Jimmy’s also in the car, which strikes him as odd, but he knocks on the passenger window and waves anyway before he opens the back. It takes some cajoling and Jimmy scooting his chair forward a bit, but Roman gets in comfortably, stretching his ankle out on the seat.

Mom rushes out as they start backing up, and Roman barks at them to “Wait a minute,” as he rolls down the window.

“What time will you be back?” it’s not her usual ‘concerned mother’ voice, but her authoritative one, one she reserves for work. Best not be smart, now.

“One, maybe?” Jey says. “Jimbo here has a dentist appointment at 12:30.”

Nodding her head, Mom sighs. “I won’t be home, but your father will be. I have to go grab something from work real quick.”

Roman tries not to sigh out; one-on-one time with Pop sans training was something that didn’t happen often, so who knows how well that would go over. With a nod, he says, “Okay. You’ll be home for supper, right?”

“Oh, definitely.” She’s in her work clothes, a sleek dress and blazer buttoned over it, hair freshly washed and glasses on the bridge of her nose. “It so happens that someone scored the winning goal in his last high school football game, and I want to treat him to his favorite tonight.”

“Sushi?” Roman lights up. He loves sushi.

“That’s it. You two want to come?”

The twins look at each other. “Sure!”

Guess the party wasn’t all that important.

“Excellent! Alright, gotta run – say hi to Dean for me, okay?”

Roman smiles as he rolls the window up, waving at her as they drove away.

* * *

Roman tried to keep his hopes high, but try as he might, he just couldn’t bring himself to fully believe every chant of _He’s gonna be okay_ ; never had he felt something come over him so suddenly when the siren cut through the cheering and chanting and excitement of the night before, how it was a very palpable terror that gripped him and rocked him to the point of almost throwing away his chance to get his football scholarship like he wants, but ... while it ended up turning out okay in the end, he wasn’t sure if the same could be said for--

When the trio made it to the hospital, Roman was content to just ... sit in the back, looking like he’d no sooner faze into the seat itself and disappear, and it takes Jey tugging a lock of his hair to get his attention back. “Yo, _uce_ , let’s go.”

He doesn’t say anything, but quickly scoots feet-first to the opposite door. Jey’s got it open, and as he bends down to grab the crutches on the floor, he meets his cousin as he holds out his hand to get him out. Taking it, he stands, leans against the side of the car so he can put his crutches down.

Whatever was awaiting him inside the hospital, damn it, he was going to stomach it. For Dean.

The three walked across the parking lot and into the large lobby of the hospital, where Roman wasted no time in scoping out the front desk and heading over.

“I’m here to see Dean Ambrose?”

The receptionist, a nurse with bright-pink hair pulled back in a bun under a hair net, looks at him like he’d made up the name. Still, she does her job, types in the name he gave her, had him spell out ‘Ambrose’ about four times before she looks up at him. “I’m sorry, there’s no one here under that name.”

“That’s ...” for a split second, he questions himself, but he won’t give up. “There was an ambulance that brought a boy in last night. At like, 9ish last night?”

“I can’t just release private patient information to you. If you aren’t here for a medical reason, I hope you have a good day, sir.”

Roman’s nostrils flared – he wanted to argue, but no amount of temper would change anything. She was only doing her job, and him being a general nuisance was only going to make it harder. Nodding his head with a muttered sound of gratitude, he turns away ... and ultimately bumps into someone in the process.

All they mutter is an “Oof!”, and it shakes the frustration out of Roman, the urge to be courteous taking precedence.

“Sorry ‘bout that.”

“R... Roman?”

Roman jumps, turns around and nearly loses balance on the crutches as he does, and stares, wide-eyed.

“...Dean?”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbh, i got this chapter confused with the last one - not that i thought they were switched or somethin, just. totally forgot it was a thing lmao. but here, something i'm sure you've been waiting for for a few chapters now. have some more ambreigns. 
> 
> ps, happy mother's day!! (for those celebrating it, of course)

Where the events of the night before had seemed to move too fast for Roman to process, things had purposefully slowed down the second his eyes locked on the tired, messy form of Dean. The first emotion was confusion, because he would have bet good money on the ambulance going to his house, after not seeing him the entire week. But he didn’t look like he was sustaining any new injuries on his face, though his knuckles were taped up, and before he could ask, Dean pointed to the crutches.

“The fuck did you _do_?”

“Foot gave out last night.” _I was so scared, I thought the worst and..._ “Finished the season off with a victory though. Go Gaters.”

Dean’s face contorted immediately to guilt. “Oh my god, last night was – I’m sorry, Roman, I-”

“Don’t be,” Roman says. The confusion he’d been feeling melts into full-blown relief, and he drops his crutches with little finesse and wraps his arms around Dean’s body, locking him in place. Dean’s entire body has grown stiff, but his hands grip onto Roman’s waist and he pats at him, probably not sure what to do. “I thought...”

He’s having a hard time getting the words out, his teeth biting on his tongue to cut off whatever he was going to say. Underneath his grip, Dean relaxes, the tension bleeding out of him before he wraps an entire arm around Roman’s frame. “I’m fine, Rome. Promise.” Dean’s voice is incredibly soft, like any louder and the moment would be over, and Roman feels himself laugh before he pulls back.

“I know.”

Dean bends down to pick up the crutches, passing them over, before two more pairs of footsteps join them. Roman turns around to regard his cousins, who are both excited to see Dean okay. Jimmy reached out and he and Dean clutched hands and brought themselves close for a one-armed hug. Jey, meanwhile, had a very confused look on his face.

“Dude, glad to see you’re good! ...but, if you’re not the one in a bed...”

Roman looks at Dean, completely leveled out when he sees his friend’s face drop in a mix of emotions. He wants to pull Dean in for a hug again, and he reaches out to grip his arm, keeping his hold easy. “D, let’s go sit, okay?”

Dean looks back at Roman, eyes unfocused, like the last twelve hours have been the most exhausting he’d ever known in his life. Nodding his head, he nudges Roman’s hand off his his arm and angles his head toward the elevators.

“Yeah. Upstairs, though.”

* * *

“So ... _you_ are okay.”

“Correct,” Dean says, leaning back against the uncomfortably-firm chair; he had pulled a couple chairs up against the wall, had a thin blanket haphazardly balled-up under one of them, giving the impression that he had been sleeping here. He looked exhausted, Roman noted, but the fact that he had confirmed that he, himself, was fine was relieving.

Jey and Jimmy had disappeared a little while ago, Jey to go to the hospital’s cafeteria and Jimmy to call Naomi, leaving the other two alone in the waiting room on the second floor. Leaning toward him, Roman sets his crutches across a couple of chairs and takes a deep breath – there was no getting around this.

“So, what happened?”

Dean’s entire body flinches, like Roman had screamed at him, and Roman has the urge to dial it back; he knows comfort is odd to Dean, receiving it, but that hadn’t stopped Roman before, and look what had happened. They were closer, or, at least _he_ thought so. It says something about what Dean thought about it that all he does is take a deep breath.

“’s my fault,” his voice has this guilt-ridden husk to it, like he’d been saying it over and over again. “All my fault.”

“What is?”

“Mr. Ambrose?” A nurse walks into the waiting room, drawing Dean’s attention away from Roman’s concern, which is probably more a relief than it should have been. Roman lets him go, though, obviously. “Nurse Emily again. Mom is awake, if you want to go see her.”

Nodding quickly, Dean starts for the door, before he turns around to fix Roman with a look. “Can Roman come, too?”

“I don’t see why not – are you family, or...”

“I’m his best friend, ma’am,” Roman stands up, grabbing for his crutches. He sees from the corner of his eye Dean’s eyes widen, and maybe a little glossy, before he smiles at him. “I’m here for emotional support.”

“We’ll have to ask her when we get there – she’s stable, though, so I have no complaints. Follow me, please, boys.”

Dean follows, taking the lead, which is something Roman hadn’t really seen him do before. Usually, when they went somewhere, he followed behind, or walked with him. He charged ahead, though, occasionally pausing to make sure Roman was still there. Every time he did, Roman grinned at him, and Dean would quickly look away.

That’s the second time he’s done that in about a week. _Fascinating._

They walk a few more feet, passing a nurse station and a few carts with laptops set up. Roman hadn’t spent a ton of time in hospitals, but he didn’t hide that he didn’t like them. This visit wasn’t for him, though, so he would deal.

“Let me ask if she’s up to other visitors,” Emily says, telling them to wait outside. She pops her head in, then walks all the way in, and there are soft voices on the other side. Dean wrings his hands together, and Roman reaches over to clasp them in one of his.

“If she’s not up to it, I’ll wait out here. I don’t wanna overstep.”

“Ro ... yer’ not-”

The door opens, and Emily beckons them in. “Everything’s good to go. I’ll come back in a little while.”

Dean looks nervous for maybe the first time since Roman had known him, and he reaches his hand out to touch his side. “Well? C’mon, D. I wanna meet your mom.”

“Uh ... right, yeah.” Dean takes the lead, letting himself in first, moving his bangs out of his eyes and holding the door open so that Roman could come in. When he’s in, he can’t help but wrinkle his nose at how clean and white everything is, like color wasn’t allowed inside the room, before he follows Dean further inside. He takes up a seat by the window, across from the wide-open bathroom door, forcing Dean to go stand by his mother – for some reason, the look on his face gives the impression that that’s the last place he wants to be, but his mother is reaching out immediately.

It doesn’t really look like he’s trying to play ‘tough guy’, the way Dean hesitates. A new kind of fear takes up the majority of his expression, like he was afraid of what would happen if he went to her this time, but it was only the three of them in the room right now. Roman gets himself out of their periphery, sitting on a chair by the window, pulling the other closer with one of his crutches to put his foot onto.

_I can’t tell if he wants to be here or not,_ setting his crutches on the floor under the little table, he looks out the window, patiently waiting for introductions to be made, or however Dean wanted to play this.

After a minute, Dean walks around the bed to the side where Roman’s sitting and takes up a spot at the foot of his mom’s bed. “Roman, mom. Mom, this is...” he waves his hand around, ever-aloof in the way he addresses them both, though he does make it a point to look straight into Roman’s eyes when he says, “...my best friend, Roman.”

The hospital room was small, so the chair that Roman was sitting to was in close-enough proximity to the bed that Roman could lean over it slightly and reach out to clasp Dean’s mom’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

“So, you’re _the_ Roman,” her voice is raspy, yet somehow carries this lighter tone to it, and not knowing why, Roman nods his head with a _Yes, ma’am_. “Must be a southern-boy thing. Never got called that back in Cincy... ugh, Dean, can you get me a cig, they’re in my-”

“ _Mom._ Yer’ in the damn hospital.”

“So?”

Rolling his eyes, Dean leans forward and starts fiddling with a rip in his jeans. Roman, meanwhile, adjusts in his chair, a little uncomfortable. It isn’t until Dean’s mom speaks up again, content not to bring attention to Dean, that Roman looks back up. “How’d you hurt your foot?”

“Oh, a football injury,” Roman says, looking at his ankle and mustering a little sigh. “I let something go unchecked for a long-enough time that it blew up in my face.” Turning a little to regard her fully, he shrugs his shoulders. “Nothing’s broken, though.”

“Oh,” she says, nodding her head. “Yeah, Dean broke his wrist when he was little – it was a bitch because I couldn’t afford the surgery right off, so we had to wrap his hand in an old tee shirt and clothespins to keep it from getting worse.”

Roman raises his eyebrows. “Wow.”

“Had’a work with what we got,” Dean mutters, like he didn’t want to say it. Roman looks at him. “Which was nothin’.”

_Sorry_ , he apologizes in his head, and maybe Dean hears his thoughts, because he looks up and has this unreadable expression before he looks down again at the hole in his jeans. Maybe it was because it had been mentioned, but Dean runs his fingers over his left wrist, looking down at it with a scowl before he starts picking at his jeans with blunt nails.

“Hey, takes a special kinda somebody to think of that though.” He is really trying to make Dean feel better, because all of a sudden, it’s like his mood took a nose-dive.

“Yeah,” Dean says back. “Poor.”

“ _Resilient._ And really clever, D.”

Dean doesn’t respond to that, but Roman takes it as a victory.

* * *

Nurse Emily comes back in about a half-hour, saying she needed to talk to Dean’s mom in private, so Dean and Roman see themselves out. Dean’s mom pulls Dean in for a hug, and he grants her a kiss on the cheek in return, before she beckons Roman over. He smiles as he grabs his crutches and hobbles over, before he’s unceremoniously pulled down for a hug.

She whispers in his ear, “It’s about time he had a positive influence,” before she releases him, and he looks at her for a minute before meeting up with Dean in the hallway.

“Wha’d she say?” he asks, more cautious than curious, and Roman smiles and reaches out to tousle his hair.

“Wouldn’t _you_ like to know?”

“Yeah, kinda, ‘s why I asked.” Dean frowns and bats at Roman’s hand, which makes the latter giggle.

“Just said it was nice to meet me.” She didn’t exactly tell him to keep that a secret, but he was going to treat it like one. It felt like the kind of whispered something that should be shared between people with a sacred bond, and he has to kinda smile at that, on the inside. Dean doesn’t look like he’s buying it, but instead of letting him call him out, Roman asks, “My family’s taking me out to celebrate yesterday’s win – I want you to come.”

The two walk back through the double doors into the waiting room, where Jimmy and Jey are ... nowhere to be found, which makes Roman frown. They were his ride home.

“They must’a left,” Dean says, to which Roman utters this short little laugh of disbelief.

“Must have. They were my ride.”

Dean walks back toward the chairs that he’d had set up as some sort of bed, and Roman follows him. It wasn’t like he couldn’t call his father, or just take the bus to the gas station and walk home ... well, actually, that part he better not do. The less he was on his feet, the quicker he would heal.

Sitting in a seat beside him, Roman sighs, before Dean asks, “How long ya gotta use those?”

“They’re only extra support. I can still walk a little on the ankle, but I should be healed up in a few weeks. As long as I stick to the recovery plan of ‘rest, ice, compression and elevate’.” Sigh. “You were there, the day I hurt it the first time, remember?”

Dean nods his head. “Yeah, dude. I was like, kinda impressed you continued to practice or whatever. Must’a hurt, right?”

“Only when I was careless during practice.” Roman wanted to change the subject, because no one wants to wallow in their stupidity for too long. “Hey _uce_?”

Dean hums, signifying that he’d heard him, but when Roman looks over to see what face he was pulling, his eyes are shut, his head leaning against the wall. He’s not sure why, but a smile is pulled out of him at that; the last time he saw Dean asleep, he’d only had enough light from the street lamps to make out his most definitive features, but now he could see everything.

When he realizes he’s been kind of staring, he quickly turns his gaze to his lap and clears his throat. “So whaddya think? ‘bout tonight. You like sushi?”

“Never had it. ‘s like, raw fish, right?”

Roman smiles – that wasn’t a ‘no’, “Uh huh,” before stretching out his leg. It takes everything in him not to roll his ankle, to stretch it out, before he looks at Dean. “The place we’re going to has salads or fried rice, too. I really want you to come.”

Glancing up, Roman sees that Dean’s got his eyes open, and he grins a little bit. Sighing, Dean shrugs. “If it’s better than hospital food, I’m down – ‘m _not_ about to eat in the cafeteria.”

The smile on his face widens, and he holds out a fist. Dean bumps it with his own, holds it there for a minute, before clapping his palm on his leg. “Guess we should getcha back, right?”

“And how do you propose we do that, huh? Got your license?”

“Dude, how do you think I got here?”

Roman blinks. “The ... you didn’t come in an ambulance?”

“Hell no. I drove here last night.”

There’s a look of confusion on Roman’s face, which Dean doesn’t notice until he turns his head in regards to the lack of response. Narrowing his eyes, he asks, “What?”

“What do you mean, drove? You weren’t in the ambulance?”

“Mean. Mom was? I drove behind it ‘cause I don’t do crowded spaces. So, how ‘bout I get us outta here? Been here one night, and I smell like sick people.”

Quirking an eyebrow, Roman shakes his head for a couple beats before they both stand and make their way out of the waiting room, to the second-floor elevators. “Yeah ya do – let’s get us to my place so we can get the hell outta here.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, some fun stuff happened!! i was getting ready to upload the next (this) chapter, when my program went to autosave and!! didn't! and it wasn't able to repair what had been evidently corrupted in the file. i couldn't open it, ergo, i couldn't access this story which i'd been working on for nearly Two. Years. two google searches and trial and error later and ... i was able to get it back. 
> 
> also: HAPPY 1-YEAR TO THIS FIC.

Roman sits on the couch, his ankle elevated on a plush pillow, hands folded over his full stomach. Sprawled out beside him, laying perpendicular to Roman’s hip, is Dean, who was in very much the same position; they two, Mom and Pop, and the twins had gotten back from supper about half an hour ago. Jimmy’s dentist appointment hadn’t yielded any immediate dental emergencies, so he had been cleared for sushi-going, and what a supper it was.

Dean, as Roman had predicted, hadn’t really had many experiences going out with – _family_ – people, but while his inexperience could have led to some real antics between the four boys, he just ended up being more ... inquisitive than anything, asking “ _What’s this?_ ” at everything everyone else got.

He had settled for the cheapest thing on the menu, a House Salad, and while Roman would have loved to see him try something on the menu that wasn’t ridiculously cheap, he seemed to be content with it. Didn’t stop Roman from offering to let him try a piece of his dish – of the salmon nigiri, which Dean had been extremely wary of but had tried and ultimately not liked – and, when Mom was too full to finish her fried rice with beef, she had it put in a box and told Dean he could take it with him. He had been wary to accept it, but Mom was adamant and didn’t allow his defiance.

The rest of the supper went on without incident, with Roman occasionally sharing something off his plate or Jimmy teaching Dean fake Samoan words. Dean only caught on when he heard Roman giggling behind his hand, saying that he could teach them some Cincinnati slang, which Mom immediately put a stop to.

The twins had gone back home from the restaurant, leaving the other four to go home in a pretty tense quiet; it was the first time Pop had met Dean, and Roman wasn’t honestly sure what he was thinking. He didn’t seem to hate him, but he wasn’t positive if he liked him, which was all the more reason that when he asks, “How did you meet?” he quickly explains that they met through Seth.

In a weird way, it was the truth – if Seth hadn’t sent him to check out the woods behind the football field .., maybe thanks was in order. Roman wouldn’t have spared Dean a glance otherwise.

It had been Mom’s idea to have Dean spend the night. He thanked her in his quiet way he does when he’s rarely shy, and Roman bumps his fist before the two assumed the position they were in now.

“Hey Roman.” Dean says with a tone that's half-enthusiasm and half-curiosity.

Roman tries to share his enthusiasm, but it comes out more tired and contentedly full. “Hey Dean.”

They look over at each other at the same time, each with similar expressions of curiosity, before Dean scoots a little in Roman’s direction. His head lands near Roman’s thigh, and while Roman probably would have let him get away with it, he doesn’t make any moves to lift his head up onto it. Just nuzzles into the spot, and only jumps a little bit when Roman raises his arm to lay on the back of the couch, sort of above him.

It might not have been the first time, but it was one of few, that Dean looks back at him again. It’s a look that Roman’s sure has a name, but he’s never really seen it on anybody before, not in his direction, so he feels this odd flutter in his stomach when the lights make the blue of his eyes look vibrant, like there’s a bed of flames under the blue.

“Hey, uh ... whaddya wanna be when you grow up?”

“I told you before,” he says plainly, “Football player.”

“No, not like – pretend that’s not an option.”

“It’s the only option. That’s all I wanna do.”

Dean narrows his eyes at him, and suddenly, the bed of flames are more like a wildfire. “No. Work with me. Let’s say you had to pick another thing.”

Roman hums thoughtfully, leans his head on the back of the couch, and sighs aloud; there hadn’t ever been ‘another thing’ for Roman once he started playing football. He can remember liking his little toy kitchen when he was a kid, maybe a chef? But he also liked playing doctor with his sister Summer, or his sister Vanessa’s test dummy when they played evil scientist, or ... well, he was usually the guinea pig for a lot of his siblings’ antics, but did he like it enough to want to do something else with his life?

A chef ... a doctor ... both good jobs, ones he could excel at, but could it fill the hole not playing football would leave?

“I don’t know, man,” Roman settles on after deliberating with his memories for a while. “I’ll get back to you. What about you?”

“I mean,” Dean shifts a little, turning onto his side and pressing his back into the back of the couch. Roman can’t decide if it was a deliberate move or not, with his own arm being across the cushion above, but he doesn’t make any movements to breach the contact. “I like, wanted to be a firefighter when I was a kid.”

“How about now?” Roman looks down at the top of Dean’s head. “Got anything you like now?”

There’s a heavy quiet that drags the air in the room away so fast, Roman feels like he’s gasping for air. He’s not sure why all of a sudden, it’s hard to breathe, but it gets easier when Dean sighs out himself, albeit softer and less weighted than Roman had prior. “I mean, there’s ... there’s this one thing, but I dunno-”

“Come on, D. What is it?”

Curling up slightly, Dean lets out this groan, like he’s considering it but is reluctant. He sits up, fixes his hair but making it instead fall more into his eyes, before he sits cross-legged. “Yer’ not allowed to laugh.”

 _Is it that bad?_ Roman shakes his head, crosses a finger over his heart in promise, before Dean sighs louder.

“Well, a li’l bit before I moved here with mom, I got really into ... wrestling? And it helped me cope with a lot of shit that was goin’ on, and since then ... since then, I really wanna be a ... wrestler.”

There’s a quiet that falls in the living room in that moment, one that’s so tense on one side that Dean outwardly flinches, and at that, Roman drops a calming hand on the top of Dean’s head, which makes him jumpstart a little. Roman moves his hand onto the back of Dean’s neck and holds, pressing his thumb into twitching skin – he wonders for a moment who would have laughed at something like that, but it doesn’t take long for his imagination to fill in the blanks.

“Who would laugh at something like that?”

Dean looks behind him over his shoulder, but isn’t able to hold Roman’s gaze for long. “People back home. Fuckin’ Baron and his old man. I know it’s kinda dumb to want somethin’ like that, but-”

“No it isn’t-”

“But I can’t help it.” Dean throws his body backwards, head landing on Roman’s stomach. His legs straighten out on the couch, one arm falling over the edge as the other crosses over his face, blocking his eyes. Roman reaches down and pulls it back up by one of his fingers. What he sees is Dean’s eyes looking glassier, the corners a little wetter, and he drops Dean’s arm onto his stomach.

“Dean,” Roman says softly at where his best friend’s head was near his stomach, and he sits up straighter, making Dean’s head fall into his lap. Dean sits up, but only gets halfway up before Roman’s got his arm, the one that had been over the top of the couch, wrapping around his waist and pulling him into his side. “It’s not dumb. I don’t know why they’d laugh; if anything's dumb, it’s me thinking I might make it pro one day.”

That ... he hadn’t meant for that to come out. And he realizes it too late.

“Whaddaya mean? I’ve seen ya play. You’ll do it.”

Roman has this wry smile on his face and he playfully shoves at Dean’s head. “I’m nowhere near where I need to be. Pop says I have to put on a bit more weight. I’m too scrawny, apparently.”

“Yer’ old man don’t know scrawny.” Squirming his way out of Roman’s hold, he gets up onto his feet and starts lifting up his tee shirt--

“Dean! Keep your damn clothes on!” Roman whisper-yells as he feels heat travel up his neck.

\--Dean pauses, but keeps it up at least, just under his pecs. Roman glares, which makes Dean smirk a very familiar smirk - “ _What’s cookin’ good lookin’?”_ \- before he slowly, reluctantly, lets his eyes wander like they’re want to do.

Dean’s pretty thin, not a lot of muscle definition, which doesn’t surprise Roman at all. He’s never looked particularly big, except for his height, which was close to Roman’s. It’s about the only way he knows for sure they’re around the same age. The only thing that gives Roman any sort of comfort after seeing this was that--

“Well, at least your ribs aren’t that visible.”

“Used to be,” Dean shrugs. Roman is just able to lean forward and swat at his flat stomach. “Hey! What's that for?”

“Ya don’t have to sound so calm about something like that, D, jesus!”

A little smile, for some fucking reason, shows up on Dean’s face. “Hey, that was then ‘n this is now. I’m here, ain’t I? ‘sides, I was just showin’ you how scrawny I am. Never really put on a bunch of weight anyway.”

Roman feels his heart squeeze at that, and in a rare bout of curious good humor, he lifts up his own shirt, just slightly, enough that only his stomach showed – he didn’t have a flat stomach, but what was there was certainly more than Dean. Pursing his lips, he moves to put his shirt back down before he ... well, he jumps slightly when he sees Dean’s eyes staring at him.

“Dude, what?”

Dean, startled, takes a step back, but his sneakers’ lace had come loose and he’d been standing on it. When he moves, he starts to fall, and Roman’s got two options.

“Whoa-”

“Dean!”

One: let Dean fall, because it’s not like there isn’t an ottoman behnd him. He’ll fall over it and simply land on the floor.

Or...

Somewhere in the back of his mind is this voice, he used to listen to it a lot more, that’s kept him from doing reckless things. It’s kept him from jumping out of trees when his cousins had, and made him think twice about crossing the street during rush hour. It’s the same voice that warned him not to go to the woods at Seth’s distressed voice, and the same that, since then, had been pretty ... quiet lately.

But it awakens then, as he starts moving, pushes himself off of the couch and forgets for maybe an entire half a second that one of his ankles shouldn’t support any of his full weight right now, and he reaches. His hand shoots out in front of him as his feet plant onto the ground, and his fingers close around Dean’s wrist to stand him upright.

Dean does end up able to straighten himself out, uttering a grumble of thanks in Roman’s direction, but not before he has to be the one to do the saving when Roman's ankle gives under his weight.

“Ah, shit!” Roman hadn’t been thinking when we got up, nor when he’d gone to stand so he could catch Dean. But he was thinking now, as his bad foot throbbed for his stupidity and he immediately shifted the weight onto his good foot, continuing to say some choice colorful words under his breath.

“Hey, whoa! Easy there...” Dean’s voice is a higher pitch than normal, a little shrill from adrenaline, and his hands wrap around Roman’s arms to steady him. On instinct, Roman’s hands close around Dean’s biceps, finding balance as he shifts his weight and moves to stand, and...

...they’re standing really ... really close together.

Dean’s being uncharacteristically quiet, his eyes wide as his attention is raptly Roman’s. Roman’s none the better, after he straightens his back, and he never really saw before that he stood a good couple inches over Dean. Heat is trapped between them, making the air he’s trying to breathe thick and heady, and suddenly, Roman’s at a loss of what to say.

“Um...” Dean seems to be having trouble too, which if he weren’t currently suffering the same fate, Roman might have to laugh at. “I, um ... are you, uh ...”

“I’m okay,” Roman says, soft, and his hand moves of it’s own accord from holding on to Dean for balance to keeping him as close as he was. “You okay?”

“’m ... yeah, I’m ... good, actually.”

Roman nods – he’s good, too – before he feels a shift in his body, this ... this feeling of being high up and the ground dropping out from underneath him. He’s kind of flying, is what it feels like, weightless, and suddenly he remembers he’s a little afraid of heights. “Uh-” he breaks eye contact, which he swears make an actual sound in his head, and he looks behind him to grab his crutches. “I’ll be ... right back. Thanks, D.”

“Yeah...” Dean says, more under his breath than anything, and Roman leans heavily on the tops of his crutches and makes his way around the couch and into the kitchen, where he can hear Mom moving around.

The air is a lot thinner in the kitchen, cooler too, and he has to stop himself from pulling the air in here into his lungs like some sort of drowning man desperate for the surface. Mom turns to see him, makes a strange face – like she knows something he doesn’t – before she smiles at him. “You feeling okay, baby? Your face is a little flushed.”

“Yeah,” he lies. “Just getting ice for my ankle.”

“Good boy. Why don’t you go sit, and I’ll bring it in for you.”

“I got it,” he rushes to say. _Need to get out of the room for a minute._

Mom’s still smiling. He’s about two seconds from asking what she was smiling about, but she turns back around to finish putting away the few dishes in the drainer. “Okay. Well I’ve got some work to do, so Dad and I are headed up for the night. You boys keep it down, alright?”

“Yeah okay,” he says, feeling embarrassment creep up his neck again; what would they be doing that would make that much noise? His brain is a little unhelpful, supplying images of Dean’s scrawny frame and the lack of embarrassment he’d felt about letting his eyes wander across his best friend’s pale flesh, and ...

...and this is hardly helpful at all, he chastises, though he’s not sure who he’s scolding. His brain is a culprit, but so is his gut, which feels kind of fluttery, not to mention the blood shooting up to his face is also shooting somewhere else and he’s going to fucking _die._

Hormones were a helluva thing.

“Night, Roman.”

He has a little trouble getting a single word out, so he reaches out slightly and casts a wave over his shoulder.

There’s no way he’s getting feelings for his best friend. No way.

It’s _Dean_. The same who’d used to get on his nerves, who tried to push him away and inevitably _failed_.

The same Dean, with his brashness and sarcasm and brutal disregard for what anybody thinks.

With his blue eyes, light curls, that ... _stupid_ smirk or smile that lights up his whole face.

It was just hormones.

...right?


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, i think we can all agree that the general consensus for the last chapter was loud screaming? maybe some squeals of happiness? we're getting there, kiddos, don't you worry. for now, i bring us down a little in preparation for the next batch of happenings. hope y'all enjoy!!

Roman rubs his hand across his newly-trimmed goatee, leveling a look at his reflection in the downstairs bathroom mirror; after Dean had left his house early Sunday morning , Roman had been given a brief reprieve from his traitorous brain, taking the time to make himself look like more of himself and less like a scratchy Samoan zombie. Now, washed and shaved, he could stand to look at himself.

Once he’d gotten some distance from Dean, his hormones had relaxed, too, which only made him think about _why_ – maybe the last couple days had been a little Ambrose-heavy. He could get behind that explanation, from concern and worry and guilt to full-on relief that his best friend was all right. Then it was coming down from those feelings, the exhaustion of the week, that probably got his emotions a little out of whack.

The distance helped on Sunday. But Monday morning, when he rides once more with his cousins and gets back into school-mode, when he walks with assistance of his crutches to his locker to put his things in and stash books for his first few classes into his backpack, he hears Dean and his problem is far from over.

“Roman!” Dean calls behind him, making Roman look behind him and stand a little straighter. “Dude, I gotta talk to you.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” he oozes amusement, because that’s kind of what they do now. Something new happens, some kind of new development, and things are forced back to normalcy, good moods and wild teenage antics. He can only imagine what kind of things Dean’s got on his mind. “Well, my afternoons just opened up ‘til I can walk on this ankle, so come find me after school.”

Dean doesn’t like that idea. “Ya can’t listen now? I kinda can't after school.”

“Why not? We always hang out after school.”

There weren’t many other kids in the hallway – the twins usually came to school earlier so that Jimmy could hang out with Naomi and Jey could hang out with his friends elsewhere – so they had had a relatively private interaction. Private, of course, until kids starting filling the empty hallway, stopping by their lockers and making the hallway turn into more of a social watering hole, and making Roman realize with clarity that, at this watering hole ... ‘jocks’ were at the top of the food chain.

“Roman! Good game on Friday!” a girl calls from across the hall, drawing his attention away from Dean. He smiles at her, friendly; when it came to the other jocks, football players were the kings of the hypothetical castle, but Roman certainly was _not_ the most popular of the football players. Mojo was up there, excitable and friendly and hilarious as he was, but Roman was quieter, kept to his ball and his work and didn’t get involved with anything else. But he’d thrown himself, unknowingly, into the spotlight on Friday.

_Can I un-throw myself?_

He offers this shy little smile at those that sing his praises throughout the day, but unfortunately, when he goes looking for Dean, he can’t find him. His nerves don’t really take over him at any point, he knows he’s at school and is pretty sure he’s all right, but he can’t know for sure that all is well.

Dean wanted to talk to him. He hadn’t really sought him out for that reason before, hadn’t ever been outright about his intentions ... and, talk about what? Dean hadn’t ever been the type to initiate a serious conversation – he’d have one, but wouldn’t start it – but he seemed pretty concerned about what he had to say. It seemed serious.

During his off period, Roman goes out of his way to look for Dean, even going so far as to walk around the school, peeking quickly into the window on each of the doors to look for that familiar head of curls. He doesn’t see him, though he sees Seth, who says something to his teacher before going out into the hall to meet with him.

“Rome hey, what's ... what happened to your ankle?”

“Sprained it,” his ankle isn’t on trial here. He wished things would stop getting spun around on him. “Have a good weekend?”

...well, he wasn’t about to demand to know where Dean was for the second time in as many weeks. Seth wasn’t his Dean Ambrose tracker.

“Uh, yeah. Made plans to visit Connecticut for Thanksgiving break, visit my grandpa – you okay?”

“I am, yeah,” he ducks his head, forcing a smile on his face; Seth came from a rich family too, with his grandfather heading the largest law firm in Stamford. Quite like Roman, Seth didn’t like to talk about who his family was, didn’t want people to think he was some rich snob or something (even if, sometimes, Seth acted more the part.) Roman shifts on the crutches, leaning forward on them, trying to look as casual as possible on the damn things. “I’m really sorry to ask, but-”

“Ambrose should be in History,” Seth sighs. Roman offers an apologetic look. “Hey, what’s with you two? Are you two...”

Did it suddenly get warm in this hallway? Roman feels warm. Blowing out a breath meant to seem standoffish, he says, “No, nothin’ like that.” He might have said it a little too quickly, though, and as such dutifully ignored the knowing look on Seth’s face. “He said he had something he had to tell me earlier, but I kinda got swept into the current, know what I mean?”

“I guess so,” sighing, Seth crosses his arms. “I gotta get back to class. His is-” he points to the door at the far end of the hall, “-right there. He’s got Mr. Jericho.”

Roman nods. “Thanks Seth. I owe you.”

“I’ll remember that,” Seth calls at his back as Roman starts headed down the hallway.

* * *

Dean hadn’t been there. Roman had even poked his head into the class, which had made Mr. Jericho turn around at the excited sophomore’s faces.

They always act like they’ve never seen a senior before.

“Quiet,” Mr. Jericho admonishes. He was a strict teacher, but not unkind, so when he gets the class to a reasonable volume of 2 out of 10, he looks to Roman and says, “Mr. Reigns, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Um... I was looking for Dean Ambrose.”

“Ambrose left for the day about,” he pretends to check his watch, but Roman can see he isn’t wearing one on the wrist he checks. “Twenty minutes ago. You’ll have to get in touch with him after school.”

Roman frowns.

_“I kinda can't after school.”_

* * *

When school ends and he’s got a moment’s peace, he starts packing up his backpack to go; since he can’t drive, Pop was picking him up, so he wanted to get his stuff and go, not take his sweet time after Pop had worked a full day in a stuffy office. Swinging his backpack on and starting for the door, Roman can’t help but feel a little downtrodden.

Dean had wanted to talk to him, and without meaning to, he’d blown him off.

He wished he’d had Dean’s number – didn’t know if he had a cell phone or anything – but he resolved to check Facebook later that night, see if he had one.

Pop is waiting in his giant truck, front and center, in the front of the school. Although he knows he won’t do so back, Roman waves, and when he gets over to the truck, he pulls his backpack off and swings it into the back, before maneuvering himself into the passenger’s seat.

“Hey, Pop,” he says.

Pop grunts in greeting. Roman hadn’t expected much more than that. “Do you have all your work?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Did you have a good day?”

“Yes, sir. Though, could we make a stop before we go home?”

“Where would that be?” Pop pulled away from the curb, pulling around the parking lot to one of the exits, which happened to be the one closest to Dean’s place. “I hope it isn’t too out of the way.”

Roman’s shoulders sag – there’s no way Pop would go for it. “Actually, it’s down this way-” he points in the direction, “-but I have to talk to my friend Dean.”

“Is it an emergency?”

He wasn’t sure. “Well, I ... I don’t know.”

Pop scrunches up his nose. “I’ve been in the office all day, son. I want to get home quickly, and you have homework. You can see him tomorrow.”

It was what he expected, but he can’t help but be disappointed. “Not even for a few minutes?”

“You will see him tomorrow. Let’s just go home.”

Roman frowns, crosses his arms over himself, and looks out the window.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been on a tear with this fic lately. might not seem like it to all of you, considering sometimes how long it takes chapters to come out, but once i get in a zone i can't seem to stop. but anyway - thanks for the comments, kudos, and continued support, you guys! here, have another easy-breezy chapter! (with some deano backstory, just a li'l bit!)

Dean knows about goodbyes.

When he was barely old enough to walk, it was his father, who chose to love his powders instead of his wife and son and was thrown in jail for it. When he was four, it was to his mother who, almost every night, would leave him with Gramps and go out and pull money in in ways he wished he’d never found out. At ten, it was to his friend Sami Callihan, who had moved and left him alone.

Thirteen: Cincinnati. He moved to Pensacola, and from there, the goodbyes had stopped. The hellos started.

Hello, new house. Hello, own bedroom. Hello, new friends.

Hello, Daddy Douche-Bag and Brother Baron Corbin.

Everything became white noise after that. No goodbyes, no hellos, just ... nothing.

Mom started working nights as a warehouse worker, mostly keeping to operating lifts and things since her body wasn’t exactly as strong as she’d have liked. But she was good at it, because it put food on their table and she could see him off to school in the mornings and greet him when he came home.

She slept while he was gone. Or. He had thought.

Baron’s father worked as a custodian with his own business. Failing, as it were. He made his own hours, and wasted his life away with whatever alcohol he’d decided to waste that week’s paycheck on. Things were hairy for a while, until there was an influx of business at the start of Baron’s sophomore year of high school when he was hired to maintain the school fields in the fall and spring and summer.

Money starts coming in.

Daddy Douche-Bag starts manipulating Mom ... starts telling her that ‘he pays the bills, he makes the rules’ and makes Dean give up his room for Baron. Starts sleeping on the couch, which was comfortable enough.

Baron’s father didn't hit him, no never, because he needed Mom as much as she needed his extra income. But he was cruel to her, threatened her and called her a worthless slut, said Dean was a mutt who deserved to join his father in prison, was worthless as his mother.

No, _he_ didn’t hit Dean, but boy ... did Baron.

It was easy enough to lie, to cover up the bruises left behind.

He would watch Mom use her pretty powders early in the morning; he would have a nightmare, he was maybe five, six years old, and she would let him crawl into bed with her. She would sit at her vanity, pressing her brush into the little can of cover-up and brush it across her neck, her cheek. Shoulder, the swell of her breast.

She never hid her make-up, and he always knew the one he needed to find. They had the same skin color – pale, not sickly, but fair and pinkish – so when he brushed the powder or the cream or whatever across the bruises on his cheek, his shoulder, he would watch them disappear.

It got easier, though, to just wear loose sweatshirts, to let his short hair grow out over his eyes, let them grow hooded with dark circles from exhaustion. He didn’t sleep much. Didn’t want to blindly wait for the last shoe to drop.

He started sneaking alcohol from Daddy Douche-Bag’s liquor cabinet – not an entire bottle, just enough to fill the bottom of a water bottle, something he could throw away – and would hide away somewhere within running distance. The back of the school.

He and Mr. Regal got real close when somebody – he couldn’t remember who – ratted on him.

The cigarettes were an old habit. He’d taken them from his mother’s purse, hid them, and started with that. He knew the dangers of drugs, but he had only a stash of about ten, and he was used to stretching something so he could have it for a long time. He'd hung out with kids who smoked, but they eventually ditched him. Guess people were talking about him?

People could think what they wanted. He didn't particularly care.

After a particularly grueling week of homework and review, Baron had cornered him in the apartment, spouting some bullshit about frustration, when he swung ... and Dean moved. Baron caught his wrist and swung him, hard, and Dean had heard a pop. He’d cried out, smashed his head into Baron’s mouth, and ran to his room. It was a Friday night.

He’d run away to the woods that night, got one of the cigarettes from his hidden stash and grabbed his bottle of warm whatever stashed in a paper bag and snuck out the window to lick his wounds in the woods behind the football field.

There was a game that night.

That night, his world changed forever.

White noise became one more hello.

Hello, Roman Reigns.

* * *

“So, Jimmy and Jey are working their party around us,” Roman looks over at Dean, who’s distracted and staring at the floor for probably the third time in as many minutes; the last couple of days, Dean had been on the more distracted side, having to be roused from whatever reverie had taken his attention in the first place. Not that Roman worried too much what was on his mind, but on the other hand, he _kind of_ did.

Dean’s head angles in Roman’s direction, but his eyes stay on the floor. Peculiar, still distracted. Roman reaches over, grabs Dean’s shoulder, and gives him a little shake. They’re sitting at the lunch table Roman usually frequented with the twins, but they were sitting with their other friends today. A part of Roman’s heart aches at that – Matt graduated and left to be a wrestler when Roman was still little, so he didn’t have many boys in his family he could have played with. His cousins were his age, and lived on his street. They were his only friends for a long time, and even if now is not quite the case anymore, it still left him a little lonelier than before to come to the conclusion that they might be his only friends, but he wasn’t theirs.

At being shaken, Dean recoils, his whole body jerking. Roman smiles apologetically. “Did you hear me?”

“Sorry, man.” In other words, no, he hadn’t. Roman uses his whole body to roll his eyes, but it’s nothing but theatrics.

“I said, the twins are planning their party around us. So whatever weekend you’re free, let me know. We’ll try this shit again with less hospital visits.”

Dean’s laugh is short and empty. “Yeah, okay.”

There was obviously something still bothering Dean, Roman could tell, but he wasn’t sure how much he could get away with getting out of his best friend. He was willing to try, of course he was, but there was no telling how much success he--

“I might lose my house.”

Shocked out of his own mind, Roman looks at Dean; had he thought out loud? “What ... What do you mean?”

“He might’a been a piece of shit, but the douchebag was good for somethin’,” Roman guessed he meant his stepdad, and he let himself still and become quiet to let Dean speak. “Paid half the rent so Mom could only work the one job ‘stead of the two she had to keep us above water.” Dean’s voice cracks, and he loses steam, his voice a mere whisper as emotion takes hold of him. “I don’t wanna be homeless again.”

“You won’t be, you hear?” Roman puts his hand on the back of Dean’s neck, giving it a squeeze. Dean sort of arches into it. “You’ve always got a place at my house. Got a spare room. And on the off-chance it turns out that way, you both can come. We got the room.”

“You’ve done enough for me in the past few months than anyone has my whole life, Ro,” Dean’s voice is still a whisper, but is less emotional. “Yer’ crampin’ my independent style.”

“You can still be independent sleeping in your favorite best friend’s guest bed.”

Dean elbows him. “ _Only_ best friend. Only person on this fuckin’ planet willing to put up with my shit.”

“Yeah, well,” Roman grins, elbows Dean back. “You’re the only one willing to deal with mine.”

An unreadable expression comes across Dean’s face as he turns to regard Roman, before he sighs. “I’m pretty sure I won’t have anything going on after Thanksgiving. Like, I’ll be outta town after this week ‘n even then, the only other person who _might_ chill with me is Rollins, but you’re _much_ cooler.”

Letting out a snort of a laugh, Roman elbows him. “I’ll let the twins know. Gives us plenty of time to ... ya know, plan out who’s meetin’ who where, et cetera.”

“Could we do what we did last time?” Dean pulls a leg up to wrap his arms around it, putting his chin on his knee. Roman notices idly that while he’s thin, he’s also pretty flexible, and the tips of his ears grow warm. His hair covers it quite nicely. “Where I go to your place, then we go together?”

“I mean,” Roman starts, trying to keep his mind focused on everywhere but Dean, “Last time we had the advantage of Pop being outta town, but ... he’d never go for me goin’ to a party during the school year--”

“He doesn’t have to know.”

Said so _fucking_ casually that, at first, Roman didn’t even think about it.

“Of course he has to know, Dean, wha--” It dawns on him. “--Dean, we’re not sneaking out.”

Dean gets this smirk on his face, one that Jimmy – the grinning weasel – would be proud of. “Oh, we’re totally sneaking out.”

“Are you kidding me? You have any idea what he’d do to me if he found out I snuck out to a party?” He’d been literally _dragged_ to a party a few days before he’d met Dean for the first time, by his fucking _cousins_ , and Pop had been furious. How would he respond if it was someone who wasn’t family?

_He’d fucking kill me._

“So, we don’t tell him?”

_WHAT IS HE NOT UNDERSTANDING--_

“He'll figure it out, _uce._ ”

“Nah. Not if we’re stealthy. I’ve been sneakin’ outta my house for years and I never got caught.”

“Years, Dean!” Roman wasn’t mad. He’s getting a little frustrated though. Dean, as usual, looks completely unperturbed. “You got years on me. I’m a stocky athlete; I can’t walk through the house without makin’ noise!”

Dean shrugs. “I’ll teach you, dude.”

“How?”

The bell rings before Dean can give Roman an answer, which is just as well, because frankly ... Roman doesn’t want to know.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a rarity - two updates in one week? weiiiird.   
> so, i've decided: i'm going to aim for updates on saturdays. not every saturday, but if i have an update for ya, expect it then. i'll let y'all know on tumblr if i have a new chapter. 
> 
> (my tumblr: cookiethewriter)

Despite the ominous promise left to fester in the air and Roman’s literal paranoia that Dean might sneak into his house in the middle of the night, nothing of the sort actually happens. Of course, it takes a few days for Roman to be truly convinced, but when he’s not woken up by a tapping at his then-locked window or movement in the house when he gets up to piss or get a drink or whatever, he relents in his caution and lets his window remain open again through the night.

It’s a welcome comfort when an anxiety he didn’t remember feeling before grips his entire body; when football season was over, it was like he didn’t have anything to defer his attentions into, didn’t have something to distract him from the occasional nervousness he often felt when it came to things he thought too much about already. One of those things was his future.

His future looked pretty fucking good, it wasn’t like he was complaining – even if he didn’t want it to go down like this, his parents would happily make sure he got into whatever school he wanted, and Pop would make sure it all came with a good football team – but the closer he got to putting the metaphorical fork into his high school career, the more he realized that it was all coming up on him out of the blue.

He’d barely thought about it – off-seasons were usually about reflection, focusing on schoolwork, keeping his grades up and his body in shape – and, now that he had a moment’s peace ... he was thinking about it _real_ hard.

Sucking in a breath of salty ocean breeze, Roman leans on the windowsill, closing his eyes...

“Hey!” it’s a whisper, but pushed out like a yell. At first, Roman chalks it up to Mom’s plants brushing against each other below him. But when it comes again, he cracks an eye open...

“...Hey! Roman!”

...and he blinks in brief confusion before he pulls his window all the way up – he only had it partially open, enough for the breeze to brush his face while he sat nearby – but now he can fit his whole head outside.

“Dean?”

Sure enough, Dean’s standing a few feet away from his house in his usual leather jacket, a plain black tee shirt, and jeans with rips in the knees. In as many months as he’d known him, Roman still can’t figure out if they’re supposed to be there, or if Dean had been ... on ... _ya know what? Never mind_. “What’re ... you doing here?”

“I needed some air,” he says in response, and Roman doesn’t push him. Maybe he wanted to talk. So, Roman purses his lips patiently. “Wanna go for a walk?”

Roman narrows his eyes, a little confused; it was slightly dark out, still light enough that the lamps outside hadn’t yet turned on, but dark enough that they’d kick on while they were out. If he even decided to ... which, of course he did.

“I’ll be down in a sec. Why not come in? I gotta change real quick.”

He was in his sleep shorts, which were just regular shorts, but they were thin and he didn’t exactly want to give the general public a view of something he didn’t want them to see. Dean shifts, but stays put, and Roman only moves when he sees Dean lift something to his lips before dropping his hand back down.

Smoking. Got it. Better stay outside.

“I’ll just meet you out there,” he says in a laugh, before closing his window and casting one last look outside before running over to the corner where he’d discarded his jeans from earlier that day and grabbed a tank top. On his way out, he snagged a sweatshirt too, because it cooled off a lot around this time.

“Mom?”

She was sitting on the couch with her laptop up – reading through an e-mail, it looked like, not that he was snooping – but looked up to grace him with a tired smile. “What’s up?”

“Can I go for a walk with Dean for a while?”

Mom doesn’t seem to dislike the idea – it wasn’t terribly late, and Roman was almost 18 – and nods. “Sure thing. Why didn’t he come to the door?”

Technically, Dean wasn’t of legal smoking age. And his mom worked for the state, so if he had come to the door, he would have been in trouble. Of course he wouldn’t condone his friend’s behavior, but he wasn’t going to go out of his way to criminalize him, either. Shrugging his shoulders in a way he hoped looked genuinely confused, he says, “No idea.”

“Oh,” somehow, it looks like she’s got a few ideas, but she goes back to her e-mail. “Well, you know your curfew is 10pm. Don’t be too much later – I’ll leave the light on for you. Bring your key.”

“Got it.” He always keeps his car keys hung up near the coats, where everyone else’s usually were, and he wraps the lainyard around his neck before trekking to the door. “See ya. I’ve got my phone, so lemme know if you need anything.”

“Okay, Ro. Have a nice walk.”

* * *

“If you’re gonna smoke, can you at least blow it like, far away from me? I don’t wanna smell like an ash tray.”

Dean wrinkles his nose at Roman, mimicking his own wrinkled nose. “I’ll do my best, Ro – can’t ‘zactly promise anything.”

He blows it over his left shoulder, with Roman on his right side, before he clears his throat.

“Everything okay?”

Dean shrugs. “I guess.”

Roman’s known Dean long enough to know when he’s playing it off. Nudging his elbow, Roman urges. “C’mon. We got time. Also, where are we walking to?”

“Oh,” Dean says, too casually, “Just around. How long you got?”

“My curfew’s at 10. So ‘til then. Plenty of time.”

“Hm...”

That’s all Dean says to that, and Roman lets out a soft sigh before putting his hands in his sweatshirt pockets.

They’ve made it off of Roman’s street and are walking one street over from the beach. Plenty of people were still hanging around, though less would be at the beach during this time. He figured that’s where Dean wanted to go, so he looks over. “Wanna go for a late-night swim, do ya?”

“I don’t really got a destination, just ... I just wanted to go for a walk.” He takes a drag then throws it onto the ground, stomping on it rather dramatically before blowing the smoke out harshly.

“Okay,” Roman says, placating, diffusing the situation. “No problem, _uce_. ‘s long as I get home before 10.”

Nodding his head, Dean shuffles his feet as he walks. “Got it.”

So Roman lets him lead a ways, taking in the cool dusk air, the sound of their footsteps getting lost in the sound of the water crashing against the sand a street over. Roman loved the ocean, loved hearing it and smelling it and _being in_ it. He didn’t have many loves these days, but one would always be football, and another would _always_ be the ocean.

When they make it to an intersection, Dean walks down to the left with little deliberation, and Roman discovers they’re probably going to the beach. It doesn’t take long for him to find out he was half-right, as he’s expecting to hit sand and the two of them walking across it to pick a spot, but instead, Dean takes him up the road. There’s a spot above, like a rest stop, with a bench and guard-rails, and not soon after seeing it, they’ve reached the top of the small hill, Dean walking forward to sit on the bench.

Roman follows, a little slower, and sits next to him.

“So,” Roman says, leaning back against the bench and stretching his arm over the back of it. His hand’s not far from Dean’s shoulder, and his fingers twitch and rub his others. It’s an obvious distraction from putting his arm around Dean’s shoulders. Honestly, he’s not sure why he’s even got the urge. “What’s up, D?”

“The sunset here is a lot better lookin’ than it was in Cincinnati,” he says, out of the blue. Roman blinks, raising an eyebrow as he turns his head to look out at the horizon; the sky is a mix of dark and light, orange and red fading into the night, and Roman has to agree, although he’s never seen Cincinnati skies. “It’s cleaner, too. Though, truth be told, I never breathed any better or worse in Cincy.”

“Maybe that’s because you smoke?” Roman says calmly.

“Nah,” Dean drawls. “I didn’t always smoke. Kinda just started doin’ it recently. No, Cincinnati’s got shitty air. In some places, I bet it’s nice, but not where I grew up.”

Roman just listens, because he doesn’t really have anything to follow up to that. It was kinda nice to just hear Dean talk, about his past or in general. A simple hum of acknowledgement seems to do the same as a vocal response, and Dean keeps talking.

“Mom and her boyfriend had a big fight the other night, so Baron and his old man are moving in with somebody else. ‘s gonna be weird, not dealin’ with that shit anymore.”

“By ‘that shit’ you mean the abuse, right?” Roman hadn’t meant to just come out and say it, but there it was. Dean doesn’t freak out like he thought he might, just simply nods. “I’ll never forget that day you punched Baron.”

Dean chuckles, this _heh_ sound. “Ya liked that, huh? ‘s not the first time I fought back, but ‘s the first I did any damage. He’s a big, clunky fucker, and I’m ... well, I’m really not. I showed you how thin I am. Before I try out for wrestling school in a couple years, I gotta beef up.”

Roman’s face darkens, but more in a self-deprecating way. “Maybe we can do that part together. I gotta put on some weight too.”

Dean’s head whips in his direction, and he gets a little defensive. “Why the fuck would you need to put weight _on_? You look plenty good to me, dude. What you lack in weight you got in size and muscle – ya don’t have to eat a dozen donuts to run someone the fuck over.”

Looking away, Roman sighs. “Unfortunately, D, it ain’t that simple--”

“Ya keep saying that, but it pretty much is. You’re in great fuckin’ shape.”

“Thanks, bu--”

“No, Ro, you gotta ... ya don’t gotta get bigger if ya don’t want to. It’s  _your_ damn life.”

That makes Roman slowly look back at Dean; he hadn’t been expecting this, couldn’t have predicted this is what their talk would be about, but here they were. Here Roman thought he was going to be giving _Dean_ a pep talk, or comfort, or something else, he wasn’t sure. It makes Roman shrink a little, not liking the attention.

Dean seems to get it all out of his system, though, and he leans against the back of the bench. His own arm leans over the top of it, bent at the elbow, and his fingers lightly brush against Roman’s. He has the urge to tug them away and apologize, but he doesn’t, because Dean then picks his hand up by the wrist and presses his palm against it.

“Dude, your hand is fuckin’ _huge_.”

Roman laughs and wiggles his fingers where Dean's are pressing. Dean doesn’t have small hands either, but then, the pads of Roman’s fingers brush against the creases in the skin under his nails. “Guess they are. Never really thought about it.”

Conversation goes kind of quiet after that, and Dean doesn’t move his hand away, so Roman sees no point in moving his. They just watch the day turn into night, the lamps above them and on the street turning on. The quiet gets so much that eventually, Dean passes out, his cheek leaning against the back of the bench. Roman almost falls asleep too, but instinct tells him to check his phone, and when he pulls it out of his pocket and checks the time, it’s very nearly 10pm.

“Shit- Dean, hey. Let’s go.”

Dean groans in response.

“No, seriously D, we gotta go.”

Another groan, though Dean’s eyes crack open long enough for him to shake his head and stand up to stretch. He sleepily shakes out his foot and he quietly curses to himself. “M’ foot’s ‘sleep.”

Roman grins to himself before he walks over. “Okay. Come here.”

In his sleepy state, Dean does what he’s told, doesn’t fight him like he might if he were a bit more awake. Roman files that information away for later, but for now, stands with his back to Dean and bends down a little. “Hop up.” Dean looks at him funny, but then wraps his arms around Roman’s neck and lets him lift him up by his thighs. Roman sets him right on his back, gives his ankle a shake, and starts walking back to his house.

If he kept on going down this road and cut a left down a few back roads, he’d be at home faster than if he went back the way they’d come. So, with the night at his back and Dean on his back, he follows the road home, the street lamps lighting his way. 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the start of few chapter-long little arc, wherein Stuff Happens under the guise of being filler. don't worry, this story isn't going to have naruto-levels of filler arcs. and most of the time, developments happen. (the kind that makes y'all scream in glee in the comments lmao) so here, have this! hopefully i'll get the next one out soon. allegedly. (hopefully.)

On the last day of school before Thanksgiving break, Roman decides he wants to walk a lap around the track, giving himself no set time to beat or objective or anything. He just wanted to walk, to take in the trees and the warm sunshine; come the start of the holidays, he’s going to get pretty busy, since by then he’ll be able to drive again and can get back on track of finding a job. Or, well, _continuing_ to try and get that _one_ job.

He honestly can’t imagine that the jacket is still there – the whole reason for walking into that stupid store was because of that jacket, and as much as he’d love to have gotten that for Dean, the impending promise of college and whether or not he’d get a scholarship or, if not, need financial aid is starting to weigh on his mind, reminding him. Of course, he had every intention of paying as much as he could without the help of his father and the Reigns name, but.

Maybe he’d try looking into IHOP again – his Plan A – and see if they were hiring now.

When his ankle starts to sting a little, he stops, bending down to rub at it; he was three-quarters of the way around, could cut across the football field and hobble his way back toward the school to wait for whichever parent was going to pick him up or whatever. He assumed Mom – Pop’s work load is usually much more once Thanksgiving-season starts, meetings and conferences and conventions around the country to meet with possible investors and the like ... such was the life of a well-respected businessman.

He bends, slips his foot out of his sneaker enough to rub at his almost-healed ankle, when he hears footsteps rushing toward him from his front. Looking up, he sees Dean, and he greets him with a smile.

“Hey! What’s up, D?”

“Rom-- yer’ ankle botherin’ you?”

“Not much, I’m stoppin’ my sight-seeing for now to make sure it stays that way.” Pushing his foot back in his sneaker and tapping the toe of it against the ground, he starts walking back toward the exit, Dean keeping up easily. “What’s up?”

“Okay, well, mom wanted me to ask if you wanted to come over. For like, dinner or somethin’. Or like, to sleep over.”

Roman feels himself start to smile – what a fucking way to invite him over – before he begins fighting harder the urge to giggle. “I mean, I’m down. Gotta run it by my parents and get clothes and stuff, but that sounds fun.”

Dean releases a breath, makes a show of wiping his forehead, before stretching his arms over his head to cross his arms behind his neck leisurely. “That’s cool. I’ll uh. I’ll let her know. You want a ride or somethin’?”

Roman shrugs his shoulders. “Nah. Think my Mom is pickin’ me up.”

“Cool, cool.” He fishes out a slip of paper with something scribbled on it. When Roman looks, it’s a number and a street name. His address. “If it’s all good, that’s our address. If not, I put my home phone on the back, so just like – give me a call? I guess?”

Reaching into his jean pocket, Roman pulls out his phone and swipes the screen to unlock it. “I’ll add your information right now, actually.” As he types his home number in, Roman asks, “So, no cellphone?”

“Had to get rid of it before we moved. Couldn’t afford it, and we needed the extra money.”

All Roman can think to do is nod – he can’t imagine having to make a choice like that, needing to. After a second that seems more tense than comfortable, Roman brushes his knuckles against Dean’s shoulder in a teasing gesture. “Okay so, I guess I’ll talk to you later, right?”

Dean nods, looks away, then holds out a fist for Roman to bump. Which he does, with an added, “See ya, uce.”

“Yep.”

* * *

“He wants you to come over tonight?”

Roman adopts his best Good Son face, looking his parents in their eyes; he knows there’s a very slim chance that they’ll agree anyway, it being so last-minute and all, but he’s determined to at least get one night out of them. He’d never been to Dean’s before, where Dean had been at his place a number of times, and he hadn’t really had friends outside his cousins whose house he could have visited.

Pop seems a lot less likely to agree. He hadn’t met Dean but one time, and couldn’t be as easily-swayed with the promise of things like ‘but he’s my friend’ when there were more important matters to attend to. But maybe he could manage it, considering he always did right by his dad when it came to training and practice and generally staying on his good side. Maybe, since he didn’t ask for things like this often, he could be given leeway with vacation around the corner.

Mom didn’t need to be swayed much – she already looked eager to answer, a smile on her face – and looked up at Pop as if for confirmation; to assume she needed some sort of permission from him like it was the twentieth century was the furthest thing from the truth. Like he was, she was probably watching Pop’s expression, see if there were creases or frown lines, something to convey that the answer might be anything but yes. Instead, she asks him, “Just tonight?”

Roman doesn’t do it often, but he fidgets, shifting onto his other foot and rubbing at his elbow. “He said possibly for dinner or a sleepover.” He giggles to himself. “...actually technically, he said his mom wanted me to come over”

Mom smiles, raising a hand to cover her mouth as if from laughter, before she crosses one leg over the other. “Well, let’s see – you’re maintaining an A- average, you’ve got nothing going on until Tuesday of next week ... why not stay until Monday? Have some Roman-time.”

Pop looks at her, perhaps in shock, before he nods. There was no arguing with Lisa Reigns. “If his parents are alright with it, I only ask you’re back Monday morning. Sharp.”

‘Sharp’ meant some ungodly hour like 7am, but Roman’s not passing up this opportunity to hang out with Dean for a few days. Nodding, he says, “Got it. I’ll go call Dean now and pack.” Leaning over, he hugs them both and kisses his mom’s cheek. “Thank you so much.”

“Say hi to Dean for me!” Mom yells after him as he turns out of the living room and up the stairs.

“Will do!”

* * *

As soon as he’d gotten packed, Roman had called Dean, letting him know the plan with a huge smile on his face; the last time he slept over at someone’s house was when he was a kid, over at his cousins’ house. The three of them did a great deal of bonding when they were anywhere but at Roman’s, and that was mostly because Pop didn’t approve of how carefree they were, so unworried about their future and what was going on around them, but such was not the case in reality.

Jimmy worried mostly over Naomi, how they would mostly likely be getting separated when they graduated because of the colleges they applied to. That Roman can recall, the only school they had in common was the University of Florida. Jey was concerned over what to actually go to school _for_ ; both the twins and Roman had all played sports of various kinds since they started middle school, so most likely he might go for that, but football? Baseball? Track?

They talked about it often, Jey and Roman. The twins were both pretty good at football, had played with Roman earlier on, but Jey liked running, jumping, twisting his body – track was a natural progression. Jimmy does it because Jey does. Fucking twins, man.

(Then again, if Roman could have done any school activity with his brother, he totally would have, so he gets it.)

As Roman comes down the stairs with his gym bag (washed, because he wasn’t an animal) filled with days’ worth of clothes and his essentials, Mom turns around from where she’s standing in front of the door and flashes a little smile, one that looks like the one she’d flashed in the kitchen about a week back, to reveal Dean in his usual worn leather jacket and jeans; he feels the same kind of stifled warmth that had clung to the walls and the furniture back then, too, one that made him want to retreat to another room just to be able to breathe. 

Starting to feel like that now, again, actually.

"You two have a good time, alright? Go relax."

The last part was said mostly to him, and he looks at her and leans in to kiss her cheek. "I will, Ma."

"How are you getting back?"

"I'll drive 'im," Dean waves his hand, sort of awkwardly. Kind of waves it like he was reminding them he was standing there, and Roman's lips soften at the edges. "Gotta drive me and mom to the airport anyways."

"Oh, are you going somewhere for Thanksgiving?" Mom asks, and Roman moves past her to put his stuff in Dean's car. He hears something about 'Cincinnati' and 'three' and that was about it. By the time Roman turned around to try to hear the rest of it, Dean was already walking back down the yard to where he was standing, hands in his pockets.

"Bye you two!" Mom shouts from the door, waving, before she closes the door.

Dean unlocks his trunk and, in one sweeping motion, takes the bag from over Roman's shoulder and tucks it into the trunk; his car was big enough to seat four, two comfortably, and had a smallish trunk that was enough space for maybe a second gym bag. The paint was chipping in the back, knicked in some places, but wasn't the worst looking thing. Looked more like a hand-me-down than something he bought for himself.

They both get in the car and Dean drives them back to his house. It's not a terribly eventful drive, but Dean's drumming his hands on the steering wheel, which makes Roman want to listen, to count the beats and try to guess what it is he's tapping to. It relaxes him, especially when his voice dips to quietly hum under his breath - he confirms then that it's something Dean's making up as he goes, and it's not disappointing, remaining content to listen to the music in Dean's head. When they get to Dean's, he pulls almost in the grass, and Roman feels his heart shoot up his throat as he steps out.

It's about the same size as his house, though he purses his lips when he remembers it's two residences in one - a duplex. Dean comes up beside him, holding his gym bag, a key Roman presumes is his house key brandished in his fingers as he takes the lead.

When he opens the door, Roman notices three things right off the bat: the front room is actually a kitchen, dining room, and living room smooshed into one; it smells like stale smoke, old like it's stained in the furniture and the carpet; there's no TV. In fact, there isn't a whole lot of furniture at all, with a couch pressed against the one big window in the front of the place, a table in the corner, and some mismatching chairs. It's not a terribly big space, but somehow, Roman feels like if there was much more it would be too cramped.

"I know it ain't like your place," Dean says, and when Roman looks at him, he looks a little anxious. "But we're gonna be getting a new TV soon and-"

"It's literally fine, _uce_ ," Roman says, a calm demeanor taking him over. Dean's shoulders slump a little. "It's _your_ space. If I wanted somethin' like mine, I would have stayed home."

"But you didn't." Dean says it, almost to himself. For confirmation, maybe. "You came here."

Roman reaches out to grab his bag, and in the process, ruffles Dean's hair. "Yeah."

There's a staircase pressed against the wall near the kitchen, and Dean turns toward it, waving Roman toward him. "My room's upstairs, so ... that's where yer' stuff can go."

Roman follows up the maybe ten steps and walks through a warm hallway with three doors leading out of it. "First door's bathroom, across from it is Mom's, and the one after hers is mine."

Nodding his head, Roman heads into the second door on the left, Dean making his way in behind him and closing the door; there isn't much in there, a bed with dark sheets, a small dresser, a desk with a lamp on it, and not much else. It doesn't look like he has many belongings.

"So I totally didn't think about this ahead of time, but uh - we've got like, sleeping bags in the closet if ya wanna camp out in the living room, or we can hang out in here, or..." rubbing behind his neck, Dean looks at Roman for about a second before he looks away, his hand scratching at the hair at his neck.

"We can play it by ear, if ya want. I brought my laptop and some movies to watch."

"And mom will be home soon with stuff for dinner. You good with spaghetti?"

Roman nods. "Hell yeah."


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t e c h n i c a l l y, the chapter i'm working on isn't finished. but i'm stuck and i didn't want to leave y'all empty-handed because i'm dealing with my annual case of writer's constipation. (it's a thing. i'm coining the phrase.) 
> 
> y'all love dean's mom!! i'm glad you do, because during the next few chapters, she'll be around. i love writing her too, so i'm glad you're all enjoying her. 
> 
> finally, this chapter has got some Feelings in it, which i'm sure you'll all enjoy. so, here: enjoy this while i work my way through the mental sludge that is chapter 29.

Dinner at Roman's place was usually quiet, with Pop usually locked away in his office working on the last bits of paperwork or research or whatever else he did, leaving Roman and Mom to have quiet conversations at the dinner table over something delicious that Mom slaved over for the better part of the evening. They pretend that they're not disappointed that Pop isn't there, but the sheer constancy of things like this overtakes them, lets them bask in the quiet and the mom-and-son time.

There's not a lot of dad-son time when football is taken out of the equation.

But at Dean's, it's different. It's loud and it's fun, with Dean and his mom talking animatedly about things that happened at the factory or about Dean's day of school. Roman just sits there, listens with a grin on his face, because he's more a listener than he is a talker. It was nice to see Dean so open with his expressions, his words. He talks with his hands and his face and it makes Roman feel warm, to see him like this.

Every so often, Dean's mom would ask him something, and he'd perk up like he hadn't expected to be included, before answering her. She got a kick out of him calling her 'ma'am' and he smiles at her when she laughs, says "That Southern boy thing," to herself before she gets up to start cleaning up.

It's Roman who gets up first, to help clean up, before Ms. Ambrose stops him. "What do you think you're doing?"

Roman freezes, like he was a kid with his hand over the cookie jar. "Um ... helping you ... clean up?"

"Absolutely not." She's walking over to place her hands over Roman's shoulders and lead him to the seat where she'd been sitting, next to Dean. "I can get these. You two go relax."

"Oh, are you sure? Thank you, ma'am."

Dean, while the two were talking, had gone around to get their dirty plates and brought them over to the sink. When he met Roman at his side, he bumped his elbow against Roman's arm, getting his attention. "C'mon, dude."

Roman nods his head, to one or both of them, before following Dean to the couch. Dean kind of just crashes onto it with little finesse, with Roman taking more care as he sits down next to him.

"Ugh, I'm so full," Dean says, patting his flat stomach. He lifts up his tee shirt and pushes his stomach out, arching his back to make it seem like he had a bit more of a gut, and Roman laughs.

"Gonna hurt your back, _uce_."

Dean laughs, looking down and rubbing his stomach with one hand. " _Ugh_ , how could you scold me at a time like this? I got a whole-ass food baby, Rome."

Roman rolls his eyes, patting his own stomach. "That was good, though."

Dean's mom had come home with two large bags of groceries shortly after the boys got all situated upstairs, and had set to work starting dinner. The boys had changed out of their school clothes in the meantime: Dean had taken a shower, after Roman declined needing one, and had come out in a pair of loose sleep pants, the waist tied tight with a thin string. They still had managed to look like they might fall down, but they hadn't yet, to Roman's internal relief.

Roman had changed into a tee shirt and his gym shorts, and until Ms. Ambrose called them down for dinner, they simply hung out upstairs, talking, sometimes not, completely comfortable with just being in each other's presence.

Now, stuffed with spaghetti and in good company once again, Roman finally lets himself relax, sinking into the well-used sofa and uttering a sigh. He closes his eyes, letting the atmosphere wrap itself around him, before he opens them to see Dean looking at him in a way that makes his belly flutter.

_Oh, damn_ , he thinks.

"Good?"

"Great." Roman offers a smile that feels like it pulls every ounce of calm to the forefront of his mind. "I usually have a bunch of stuff to do and think about, but I'm not and it's a good kind of strange."

Dean gets this look on his face that resembles something like embarrassment, though Roman's not sure that's the word he'd go with. "Glad I could give ya a break."

Roman hums thoughtfully at that before sitting up. "So. Where you going for Thanksgiving?"

Dean slouches a bit more, stretching his legs out. "Mom and I are headed back to Cincy to visit my Gramps. Apparently no one wanted to go home 'cause it's started snowin' already and they didn't wanna bother with it." His voice sounds sad and far away and Roman has the sudden want to go with him, so his grandfather would be less alone. Curse his bleeding heart. "But I figure, we can go Tuesday or Wednesday mornin' and spend a few days with 'im. Maybe see about seein' some of my old friends, ya know."

Roman nods. "I hope you have fun. If ya want, you can call me if, you know." He isn't sure what Dean _should_ know, what he's supposed to be saying, so he finishes with, "If you want."

_You said that already_ , he can hear a voice in his head taunt him, and he internally wants to smack himself. _Real subtle, Reigns_.

Dean only chuckles. "Yeah, okay. Prob'ly won't get to see them, so 'least I'll have one good conversation."

Quiet takes over, and the fluttering has turned to frantic whips. Like he's being swung around by his feet.

* * *

Dean's mom goes upstairs at about 6pm to get ready for work, leaving Dean and Roman downstairs for all of two minutes before Dean announces he was going to smoke. Roman contemplates whether or not he wants to go with him, opting for doing so, and both Roman and Dean wave goodbye to his mom as she drives to work in his car.

They're sitting on a bench on the top of a grassy hill, one that Roman had found Dean on one night forever ago in a very different space mentally than he was in now. They're content to sit and watch the warm tones of the sunset melt into the darker shadow of dusk, and it's for a long while they just sit there quietly.

"Last time I was here, I wanted to die."

Roman jumps, shocked, at the way Dean's voice just seems to cut through the quiet like he'd slammed a door open. He looks at Dean, who's looking calmly over the horizon, tiny lights from windows in the distance blinking on and the sound of people fading like the end of a song. He had been afraid of that very thing, and found himself fearfully wondering if, well--

"What do you want now?"

Dean looks down, fidgets in his seat, before pulling one of his legs up to wrap his arms around it; he's not wearing a jacket, which he should be, and Roman can see the stress in his jaw as Dean chews on that question for a while. Maybe he shouldn't have asked, but on the other hand, he wanted,  _needed_ to know that Dean felt differently.

"I wanna wrestle."

Roman feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes, because he's pretty sure that's the least-emotional way he could have said _I want to live_. Hardly paying it mind, he wipes his face with his left hand before putting his right on the back of Dean's neck and squeezing, like it'd keep him grounded.

"You will. You're gonna kick ass."

Dean settles against the bench, and although Roman expects it, he doesn't shrug away his hand. "I gotta learn how first. I looked into it on the computer at school and ya gotta do like, wrestling school. And before all that, I gotta get bigger and like, lift weights and shit."

"Gym memberships are expensive," he says offhandedly. He knows, because that's the whole reason Pop put a few bits of workout equipment in their indoor porch, turning it into an indoor gym. "Assuming I go out of state for college, I won't have to leave until the end of summer, so you could come over and I could train you. I promise, I won't be near as hard as my Pop."

"He's hard on you, huh?"

Roman's brain stumbles, and he backtracks. "Not like- only when it comes to anything football."

Dean puts his leg down, instead choosing to face Roman, shaking his hand off as he adjusts to face him bodily as well. Roman's elbow bends on the back of the bench. "Like how he made you run around the track?"

"I needed to work on my cardio."

"From how hard I've seen ya work, it's no wonder you hurt your ankle." Dean suddenly has this serious tone to his voice. "And I bet ya can't wait to do it all over again in the fall."

Roman suddenly feels something in his blood, something hot, and he narrows his eyes. "Are you implying something?"

"What? No!" Dean leans back, looking genuinely offended.

"Because it sounds like you are, Dean. What, you think I like running 'til I puke? I do it because I have to, because I don't wanna be the part that makes the whole fucking machine break."

"Ma- Roman, wait a sec--"

Roman doesn't listen, he stands up and doesn't have the chance to walk away when he feels Dean grab onto the back of his shirt, balling it in his hand and tightening his fingers so he's grasping tight. Roman fights the urge to push him away, because he won't be another person to lay a hand on him, and in an effort not to do so, he balls his fists at his sides and stands ramrod straight.

"Let go, Dean."

"Is that really what you think?" Dean asks quietly. "You think if you fail, everyone will fail?"

Roman wants to argue, because there's a part of him that doesn't believe that. He knows that him fumbling a football wouldn't make his team lose the game, but it might ruin the momentum. If there was no momentum, the game might as well be lost, and if that were true it would be his fault.

"I'm just one small part of a bigger machine," he talks mechanically, his voice soft and worn down.

Dean lets out this sharp sound, one that makes Roman flinch a little. It's like the calling card for a sob to be around the corner. "How could you think that?"

_You hear it enough times_ , Roman thinks, even if his father hadn't said it too many times. The once was enough, though, to put his life in perspective. Or, rather, his lack of a life in perspective.

"Yer' not- it ain't like that, okay? You are so much more than football."

Finally, _finally_ , Roman hears words he'd longed to hear, and he looks up, finally meets Dean's eyes. "That's easy for you to say," he mumbles, clearing his throat, because it sounded a bit too pinched, those words.

Dean's eyes soften, become less serious, and he nods his head. "It was. Because it's true and I think deep down you know it, too."

Shrugging, Roman sniffs, but it's not wet or threatening to be. He doesn't have anything else to say, really. In so many words, Dean had rendered him speechless.

_You are so much more than football._

Well, there was a first time for everything, right?


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the real chapter 25, y'all. as you could probably predict, i was taking joe's news hard, but i think it was mostly because this year's not been the best one for me, personally. a lot of loss, a lot of unnecessary reminders that the people i love aren't immortal ... not that i needed the reminder lmao. but turns out, writing was the best thing i could do to cope, and after some setbacks, i was able to write a few chapters. 
> 
> i wanted to wait to post anything until i could find it in myself to start reading fanfic again, and now that i have and am enjoying myself once more, i can get a move on with posting. and, speaking of that, next weekend i should have another chapter for you. c:

The rest of Friday night went on without incident, with Roman insisting he'd sleep on the floor of Dean's room and Dean  _ vehemently _ insisting that he'd do no such thing. Of course, Roman didn't care one way or the other, considering he'd slept on floors before, but Dean suggested they both sleep in the living room, where it wasn't so much hard floor as it was carpeted. 

They stayed up until almost midnight, Roman falling asleep first, and while he's not exactly sure what time exactly Dean followed him into slumber, but he was the first to rise Saturday morning, if the sound of a gas stove flicking on and the smell of butter filling the room was anything to go by. It rouses Roman, certainly, blinking against the sun that was shining directly into his face. 

"Mornin'." 

Roman looks up - it  _ is _ morning - and narrows his eyes slightly. He can't see what time it is, his eyes haven't adjusted yet, but it doesn't seem early. Picking himself up and opening his mouth wide to yawn, he stretches his arms up over his head and pushes out a loud groan as his shoulders pop. His voice, he knows, will be nothing more than a croak for the first hour of awakeness, so when he walks toward Dean in the kitchen, he greets him with a sleepy smile. 

Dean doesn't seem to mind the quiet. "Mom's gonna be home soon, but I figured I'd cook for all of us: eggs and toast, sausage on deck, and if ya want I can whip up some pancakes-"

"Got coffee?" His voice is hoarse and deep, and it's unpleasant in his own ears. Dean, meanwhile, looks at him with wide eyes before nodding his head. 

"It's ... it's in the- the thing, the- pot." 

Roman stalks over to the coffee pot, where there were three mismatching mugs of different sizes and colors - a tall red one that's got one long crack on the inside, a short yellow one, and a metal blue one - and he looks over. Perhaps it's his fuzzy brain that keeps him completely undisturbed by his best friend's obvious staring, and he offers a lopsided smile before pointing to the various coffee cups.

"The ... the red one's usually for mom. So-" 

Roman nods, seeing Dean remembering he was cooking breakfast, and pours himself some coffee into the yellow cup. Pursing his lips, he sips some before looking at it quizzically.  _ Needs a little...  _ "Sugar." 

"Yeah?"

Roman holds up his cup. "Got any sugar?" 

Dean turns off the burner he's currently working at and opens the cabinet beside where he's standing, pulling out a box of packets of sugar. He's very pointedly avoiding looking back up at Roman, but he's too tired to worry about that. "Here ya go." 

"Thank you," his voice is starting to come back to normal again, less deep but no less hoarse, and he grabs a single packet of sugar. Opening it, he sprinkles the sugar what seems like a granule at a time, and he stops when about half is still inside the little paper packet. Folding it and pushing it to the side, he swishes the cup around a little before taking another drink. He utters an airy " _ Ah _ ," and goes back to standing near the stove, where Dean is dumping the sausages on some stacked paper plates. Beside that is a stack of plates with dry toast, wheat and white, though the white is burn to a crisp. 

Dean picks up the toast plate and the sausage one and carries it over. Roman grabs the eggs, which are in a large plastic bowl, and he brings that over too. The two sit down opposite each other, and Dean hands out red Solo cups. He shrugs. "I forgot to pull out the bowls from last night's dinner, and these were closer, so-" 

An actual, honest-to-god laugh erupts from Roman, one that makes his cheeks hurt from the way he's smiling while he laughs. "You're a dork." 

Dean has a grin on his face, like he didn't know what was so funny, and that makes Roman laugh a little more. Eventually, they're laughing together, Dean a little softer, more like a chuckle than an actual laugh, before they both hear the front door swing open. 

Dean's mom looks exhausted, and on cue, she lets out a yawn. She's not unhappy - doesn't seem all that surprised, either - to see them awake, and she offers a tired sort-of smile. "Good morning, kids." 

"'Kid'," Dean says, "Like she's  _ that much _ older than I am." 

Ms. Ambrose has what Roman's pretty sure is the Ambrose-smirk, and she goes over to ruffle Dean's messy hair. "You growing your hair out, or you want a haircut?" 

Dean shrugs. "Dunno. I'm not in too big a rush to get it cut just yet." 

When his mom shrugs, Dean starts spooning eggs and sausage into her Solo cup. He grabs one of the forks he'd brought over already and sticks that in it. He hangs a piece of dry, burnt toast into it like it's a garnish and hands it to her as she hangs up her sweatshirt. She takes it, but instead of sitting with them, she sits on the couch across the way, stepping over their blankets. Her hand holds onto her ribs. 

"They botherin' you?" Dean seems almost accusatory, and Roman looks at him before glancing at Ms. Ambrose again; the way he asked, and she answered with a nod shortly thereafter, makes Roman remember she had been in the hospital not too long ago. He wonders now if it was a work-related injury. Dean looks down at his cup of eggs, wheat toast, and sausage. Takes a bite of egg with sausage and says, mouth full, like an absolute madman, "Want somethin'?" 

"Just my bed in a few," she croaks after swallowing her breakfast. "These eggs are good, boy." 

"Thanks, mom." Dean points over to the coffee pot. "Rome here beat you over to the coffee. And he likes sugar in it like you do." 

Ms. Ambrose smiles, gets up with a grunt and walks over to the coffee pot. She grabs the red one, like Dean had said, and pours herself some. She grabs two sugars and goes into the fridge to get milk, which she puts in it also until it light-brown, then puts the milk back. She joins them back at the table, sitting next to Roman, but gives him a chair of space between them. "A fan of sweets, are ya?" 

Roman shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee as she does. He sees from the corner of his eyes Dean cringe. "Not much. The occasional sweet is okay, but I only like a little sugar in my coffee." He levels Dean with a look. "What's your issue? Don't like coffee?" 

"Not even a little," he sticks his tongue out. "Sometimes I like coffee-flavored candy, but I only like the mocha flavored." 

"In other words," Ms. Ambrose takes a swish of coffee. "He likes chocolate with a  _ little bit _ of coffee flavor. Nearly drowns his coffee ice cream with chocolate syrup." 

Dean shrugs, which makes Roman shake his head. He's got a smile on his face. 

The rest of breakfast goes on without a hitch, conversation light and easy in-between the occasional munch of egg or crunch of toast. Ms. Ambrose finishes first, sets her dishes in the sink, before announcing she's going to sleep the rest of her pain off. Dean wishes her goodnight, as does Roman, and they're left alone again. 

"So," Dean mumbles, using his fingers to pick up a piece of sausage and shove it into his mouth. Roman doesn't pretend that it doesn't bother him when he starts talking with his mouth full. "Mom's dow' fo' the coun', so wha'ya wanna do?" 

Roman's nose is wrinkled and he holds up a finger, "Well, first thing is I want you to wait 'til you're done chewin' to ask me stuff like that," Dean swallows his food and is completely unbothered by Roman's words. "Second, I don't care what we do. What do you usually do?" 

There's a moment of contemplation that gives away that usually Dean doesn't do anything, and Roman wonders how he spends his days when he isn't at school. Scrunching up his mouth, he answers, "I usually hang out around the house. Don't got a lot of friends 'sides you, and you'd hardly enjoy the kinda shit I used to do." 

This piques Roman's interest, his head tilting curiously. "What ... what did you used to do?" 

Dean sighs, rolls his shoulders, and opens his mouth. Roman stops him. 

"If you don't want to talk about it, you don't- I was just-" 

"No, it ain't that. You just won't like it." 

"Try me." 

_ You're gonna regret saying that. _ A voice says in the back of his mind. He ignores it. 

"Well ... the people I hung out with most'a the time weren't my friends. Just- jus' keep that in mind." 

Roman's eyebrows furrow and he gives Dean this look, like  _ just tell me _ , and Dean sighs before he looks into the cup of eggs and swishing them around like they're liquid. "This might come as some kinda shock, but I was kind of what you might call 'a delinquent'. Got in like, a bunch of fights and shit, caused trouble. There were plenty of times when mom had to pick me up from - well, let's just say the Cincinnati Police Chief and I know each other on a first name basis."

_ What the hell _ , Roman thinks. When they first met, he did look something of a delinquent, sure, but didn't really think that when they started actually bonding. Hearing however that he had been getting into fights and the like makes his gut do some shifting in discomfort. Heaving a sigh through his nose, he asks, "Before, when you said you and your mom had to leave Cincy. Is that why?" 

Then, Dean's expression changes. From this sort of guilt-ridden nostalgia to pain and bitterness. "No," he says, voice too loud and pinched, "That's not why." 

His mantra with Dean had been, from the beginning, not to push him. Dean would talk when he was ready, about whatever it was he wanted to wait to talk about, but things had changed and Roman had realized that his feelings toward Dean had changed. They were best friends and, above all else, Roman cared a lot about him. This surge of protective energy takes over, squeezes him until he feels hot, and he pushes. 

"Were you in danger?" 

"Can we talk about something else?" Dean looks,  _ pleads _ almost, back at Roman. And for a second, Roman considers pushing some more, because this protectiveness is really stifling and he wants to be  _ absolutely sure _ that he doesn't have to worry about Dean going to jail or worse. When he apparently takes too long to respond, Dean takes air sharply up his nose. "I really don't wanna talk about it, Rome, please?" 

Roman chews on his lip, but nods his head, forcing a smile. "Yeah, yeah, let's ... why don't we hit the mall? See those posters ya like so much?" 

Nodding, Dean gets up, dumps the rest of his eggs into the garbage and sets the cup in the sink before running upstairs, presumably to get dressed. Roman sits there for a minute, staring at his empty cup, before he gets up to clear his things from the table. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to ask me by any preferred means how i had to rewrite some stuff, twice, because the universe decided to send me mental hate mail.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! have an early update! not gonna keep you in suspense up here, BUT i do have some things to say later, so if you're interested check the end notes! (some to do with this fic, some to do with my life in general, and one thing that sounds super fun but i want some opinions!)
> 
> enjoy!

In theory, going to the mall had been a good idea; teenagers typically hung out or worked here, and there was no shortage of things to do as shops of many kinds lined either side of the straight halls, shops for anyone and everyone of many ages and personalities. Of course, Roman's little plan to come to the mall proves to be a dud when it was a fucking  _ Saturday _ and everyone and their fucking  _ grandma _ was at the mall. 

It doesn't bother Roman, the amount of people, coming from a big family. He's long-since gotten used to congested hallways and weaving through crowds of people. Dean, however, was practically glued to his side, shoulder to shoulder, and Roman found himself fighting the urge to wrap his arm around his back. 

They wander around for a while, Roman looking around and occasionally looking at Dean, but his eyes were glued to the ground, like it was much more interesting, and inside Roman's kicking himself. 

_ 'Were you in danger'? Nosy piece of shit. _

When they make it to the standing map of the mall, Roman stands in front of it; he'd been coming to this mall for years, but it never hurt to look, especially when it meant they could break away from the current for a moment. 

"Okay," Roman starts saying, "I know a few places I wanna check out, but anyplace you wanna go to?" 

Dean looks at the map, eyebrows drawn down in heavy concentration, and works his bottom lip with his teeth; he hasn't said much to Roman since earlier and already he was starting to miss the sound of his best friend's voice. No amount of cajoling had opened Dean up, though as they stood in front of the map, Roman can see the barrier start to crumble. 

"Hot Topic's all the way down here," he points to the spot, and Roman's eyes hone in on it. "And we're here." Here happened to be not too far from the place they'd come for, but something in Dean's voice sounds hesitant and sad. "We don't gotta go, we can do what--" 

"Nah,  _ uce _ , we came so you can look at the posters, remember?" Roman nudges him with his elbow. "Besides, the places I wanted to check are pretty close to Hot Topic. We can do both. Start down there and work our way through the mall." For all Roman doesn't like being in the spotlight, he doesn't mind taking charge of a situation. It's something both of his parents passed down to him, natural leadership, and he looks at Dean with an almost hopeful smile. "Is that ... okay?" 

Dean looks back at him, eyes a little tired, but he straightens a little bit and looks back at the map again. "Yeah." 

From there, the silence eats them up again, and to make it worse - somehow, this hurts more than the silence - Dean puts distance between them, standing near but not next to him, his hands stuffed in his jeans pockets and jacket over his shoulders but arms not in the sleeves. Roman feels something clawing at his chest, and he swallows.

_ Talk, Dean. Talk to me. _

He doesn't, though. Not for a while, anyway. 

* * *

Half an hour has passed. 

Dean tells Roman, with as few words as possible, that he should do what he's going to do and he'd meet him at Hot Topic. Before he can answer, Dean turns and walks toward his destination, leaving Roman to stare at his back as his entire body bows forward, determined to put distance between them.  _ Come back _ , he wants to say, but instead, he waits until Dean turns down the next corridor and keeps on going. Only then does he walk straight down the corridor to Yankee Candle. 

Maybe looking for his mother's Christmas present will set his head straight, because clearly, it's screwed on wrong today. 

* * *

Walking around Yankee Candle for a while had helped clear his mind a little bit, and before long, he had found a couple scents he could give Mom for Christmas; she was a fan of unique smells, like freshly-mowed grass after it rains or clean laundry, so it was simple enough to find her something she'd like. One of her favorite smells in the world, though, was cinnamon, which he grabbed a smaller size of because that's all that was left. He ends up with a decently-sized bag of candles wrapped carefully in paper, and he thanks the cashier kindly before hurrying around the corner to meet up with Dean. 

There's a ... crowd, outside Hot Topic, and there are people yelling, though he can't make out any actual word to give indication to what's going on. Just yelling, and the closer he gets - he doesn't quite realize he's started briskly jogging over - the louder, more intense, it gets. 

He stashes his bag under a bench, pressing it up against the side, and he tries to get a good look; he stands at a large 6-foot-2 and change, so it's easy enough for him to peek over the top of people's heads, but it doesn't help him see what the hell's going on on the other side of the crowd. All he can see is movement. 

"Excuse me," he says, loud enough to people to hear him. "Pardon me..." 

People part for him as he wades through, careful that he didn't step on anyone or push them into another body. The yelling sounds angry the closer he gets to the center, and it makes him move faster. 

The yelling, turns out, is coming from Dean, who's yelling something along the lines of "Get the fuck away!" and Roman's eyes zero in on him, on his hair trapped in the fingers of Baron Corbin, and Roman just starts  _ moving. _

Three things happen in the same sequence:

Baron drags Dean up by his hair until he's standing on his feet. He doesn't see Roman coming at him like he's in football again, not until it's too late. Dean, meanwhile, pushes himself away from Baron - he hasn't seen Roman yet either, but when he does, he's tossed back into the stand on the outside of the store, crashing into clothes and hangers.

Roman tackles Baron to the ground at the same time Dean's body makes impact, and the crowd goes startlingly silent. 

An older male wearing a black tee shirt and dark jeans stomps out of the store, noises rather than words escaping his mouth as he takes in the events that had just unfolded. "My new designs! ...you clumsy little urchin, get out of my stock! And you two! Don't make me call the police!" 

Dean gets hauled bodily off the ground and is tossed away from the shop's entrance just in time for Roman to get onto his feet and catch him. They hardly pay Baron - in the background, still on the ground, wiping his hand across his face where it collided with the floor. Roman lifts Dean up and brushes him off before leading him away - he doesn't want to get the cops called on him, no sir-ee - back through the crowd. 

They only stop so Roman can pick up his bag, before they both shoulder on out of the mall. 

"What happened?" Roman asks, a little frantic, adrenaline coursing through his veins. "I was gone for like, fifteen minutes!" 

"Fucker made me get pricked in the ribs, fuck, ow." 

Roman looks over at Dean when they make it back to Dean's car, and he's cradling his ribs. His teeth are flashing as he bites out "Let's just go," under his breath, to which Roman holds out his hand. 

"You're in no condition to drive,  _ uce _ ." 

He expects an argument, but Dean reaches into his pocket and drops his keys into Roman's palm, no questions asked. 

After helping Dean fold into the passenger's side, Dean reaches out to grab the bag from Roman's hand. He hands it over with a little grin before closing the door. He gets in on the driver's side and feels especially cramped, and he turns to ask Dean how to adjust the seat before he points to the door. 

"Other side of the seat, near the door."

Roman reaches down and finds the little lever, pulling it up and adjusting the seat to the best of his ability. When he's comfortable enough, he puts the key in the ignition and puts it in drive. They drive out of the parking lot and back to Dean's apartment with little words exchanged between them, except for Dean's groans of pain and the occasional "Shit, fuck" said under his breath. 

Roman picks up a little speed, then. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay! so! firstly ... what did you think? 
> 
> secondly, writing, and more specifically writing this fic: i have a bunch written ahead of time, and i'm going to continue working on it, but i'm going to take a little social media break starting wednesday, 11/21 (today, for me, being 11/16) and going until that saturday, for holiday and family reasons. not that it'll affect y'all, but just letting you know. 
> 
> thirdly, remember 'merry ambreigns-mas' that i did for tox-moxley's (toxiicpop on tumblr) christmuts thing? i'm doing it again this year! ...gonna play in a universe i know a lot of people like, and it's one i've written a christmas thing for once /last/ year ... anyone wanna take a guess? 
> 
> fourth and finally ... so, i've been kinda learning bits and pieces of discord. and i've gotta say, the concept of opening up my own server revolving around my writing and updates and stuff like that is really appealing. but i'm not nearly popular enough for this to be a big deal or anything - i'm merely curious, is that something you'd want? it's sort of one of those things where i could post snippets, or talk future stuff, could be more interactive?? i guess that's what tumblr is for, but idk. it sounds fun to me personally, but i don't wanna do it if no one else is interested. so let me know if you leave a comment whether or not you want this!! c:


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